


like the waters I cannot drink

by lavender_dew



Series: make me an offer I cannot refuse [1]
Category: Great Pretender (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempt at Humor, Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Getting Together, Heist, Humor, I know I said canon divergence but I don't know what this falls under it's kind of both, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Edamura Makoto, Partners in Crime, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romantic Comedy, Sharing a Bed, Unresolved Sexual Tension, a lot of feelings tbh the feelings/porn ratio is pretty stacked, be gay do crime, the crime is just an excuse for my fake marriage setup, the plot technically exists but it's not winning a pulitzer, this is my first fic and it shows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:08:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27258439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavender_dew/pseuds/lavender_dew
Summary: Besides, this feeling with Laurent— this desperate, hot tension bubbling up inside him, the graceless desire to simultaneously crash their bodies into each other and kiss him softly on the mouth— this is entirely new. Makoto thought he knew what it felt like to be attracted to someone. He’s gotten butterflies in his stomach when looking at pretty girls, he’s had crushes, he’s been kissed a little, he’s slept with maybe 0.5 people total if you count generously. But this thing with Laurent— it’s a goddamn sickness. Makoto wants this man to wreck him.Or: the fake married blackmail/heist AU no one asked for! Makoto and Laurent go undercover as husbands at a ritzy couples resort to track down a mark. Laurent flirts a lot, Makoto has a relatively painless gay panic all things considered, they both think the other person's faking it, and there's a truly gratuitous amount of sexual tension all around.
Relationships: Edamura Makoto & Laurent Thierry, Edamura Makoto/Laurent Thierry
Series: make me an offer I cannot refuse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2009299
Comments: 301
Kudos: 1100





	1. Chapter 1

“You want me to do WHAT?”

“We’ve been over this, Makoto,” intones Cynthia, already looking bored. “You’re not ideal— “ (For some reason, Makoto feels insulted by this, even though he’s the one who doesn’t want to go) “-- but you’re the best candidate we have right now to be pretend-married to Laurent for the mission. I’m busy working another case in Bruges. It’s a long con this time, and not many other members can spare the time to go undercover for a month right now. Besides, it’s a tropical resort, not some deserted wasteland, and all you need to do is sit pretty and cover for Laurent while he works the target.”

“Just make him go alone then, if he’s so capable! You don’t need me for anything!”

“It’s a couple’s resort, he’ll look suspicious! And no, we can’t just make him a fake employee, before you ask. it’s a lot more work to ingratiate yourself with long-term staff, and it will be harder to socialize and get all chummy with the mark.”

“But I’m a- a GUY!” Makoto protests, lamely. He has the feeling he lost this argument a few points ago, but he’s not willing to give up yet. “Isn’t that weird? If you’re too busy, get Abbie to do it!” 

He already knows Abbie is going to Bruges with Cynthia, but it’s a worthwhile last-ditch proposal. Abbie makes an exaggerated retching sound from her position on the couch without even looking up from her phone. Laurent clutches his heart and sighs dramatically, pretending to be wounded. No one looks at him.

“I mean, not that I have anything against two guys being married,” Makoto fumbles, suddenly feeling embarrassed. “But what if Vandermeer thinks it’s weird? From what I read last night, he’s married to a woman and he’s a huge scumbag as it is, probably not that keen on being best friends with two gay men-“

“-I’m not gay, I’m kind of into everyone, really-“ begins Laurent, but Makoto whips around and glares at him until he closes his mouth. Laurent doesn’t even have the decency to look chastised.

Cynthia sighs. “Did you even look at the files I gave you? He’s definitely a scumbag, but he just so happens to have a secret penchant for pretty Asian twinks. We dug through his credit history and and found a paid subscription to some kind of Korean gay fetish site, and our informants report a ton of visits to… er, highly specialized brothels in Thailand and the Philippines, as well as a sighting at a gay club in Shanghai. He’s got a type, and you fit it.”

Makoto feels his face heat up. “I’m not- I’m not seducing him!” he hisses. “I don’t even- I’ve never-” 

“We know,” says Abbie, again without looking up. “Your sexual inexperience isn’t news to us. Try again.” Makoto feels his eye twitch.

“You’re not seducing anyone, sweet cheeks,” continues Cynthia, soothingly. “You’re not experienced enough for a honeypot mission. It’s just a lucky coincidence. You just lounge around in a tiny silk robe or something and look innocent and alluring to get his attention, and then Laurent reels him in. Your mere presence should be enough to provide Laurent with a cover and generate a bit of goodwill, and it’ll help the two of you get close enough to him to steal the hard drive.”

Maxim Vandermeer is a dirty businessman from a family richer than should be humanly possible, infamous for his use and acceptance of cash and asset bribes. Makoto’s seen most of the files, actually, he just fell asleep before reading the one about his perverse sexual habits— working with cartels and gangs, shitty labour and hiring practices, buying out politicians, and even paying his way out of prison more than once. A textbook case of corruption. The plan is simple; Vandermeer’s booked a three-week vacation at a couple’s retreat with his wife. Laurent poses as an equally corrupt businessman looking to schmooze and maybe talk business, steals the records of another shady deal the guy is planning, accepts a cool two hundred million euros in hush money after promising not to expose the truth, and then they tip off the press in secret anyway before hightailing it out of the resort. It’s a pretty standard operation, except for the part where Makoto apparently has to be innocent and alluring. He doesn’t think he’s ever been alluring in his life. He hopes Cynthia is kidding about the robe.

“I… uh. I’m not… pretty,” he begins, haltingly. His cheeks are still hot— god, when will his blush fade? “I’m not like Laurent, I can’t just…” he trails off awkwardly and waves his hands in the air in a gesture meant to convey the general idea. Laurent talks people into bed as easily he breathes. Laurent is smooth and broad-shouldered and always smells good, even during stakeouts and late-night research sessions. Makoto’s skinny and short and pale, his hair always sticks up awkwardly, and he’s pretty sure he’s wearing his shirt inside out today. Laurent actually looks surprised at this, eyes widening, slowly blinking once. His eyes are stupidly blue. Makoto’s only ever seen eyes like that in the pictures of fairytale princes in his foreign storybooks as a child. He has long eyelashes too, thick and blond. A slow, lazy grin spreads over Laurent’s face. He looks handsome even when he’s smug. It pisses Makoto off.

“You think I’m pretty, Edamame?” he croons, teasingly.

“Why, you-” Makoto sputters, and grabs a nearby ornament to throw at his head. Some kind of twine ball— why do fancy hotels always have balls of twine just lying around? Laurent dodges it easily and laughs. Abbie somehow manages to look unimpressed without acknowledging either of them.

Cynthia claps her hands together decisively. “So it’s settled, then. No more tantrums. Laurent’s going to be a great doting, rich husband, and you’ll be his adorable arm candy. I’ve got your papers and plane tickets ready to go; you leave in ten days. Brush up on your English, Makoto, Vandermeer will probably be charmed by your accent but you’ll need to socialize a lot. And Laurent, come here and look at this email…” 

And so it was that despite Makoto’s protests, he ends up ten days later in an obscenely luxurious hotel room with a suitcase full of pre-packed luggage, feeling simultaneously useless and entirely out of his depth. He’s dressed in clothes he isn’t used to; a loose tee with a wide neckline that shows his clavicle, delicate gold jewelry, and a pair of jeans that he’s pretty sure Cynthia got from the women’s section someplace— they feel like they’re practically painted on at the hips. Laurent is humming cheerfully as he shaves in the en-suite bathroom, and Makoto stares down at his hands and remembers Cynthia’s words. All you need to do is sit and look pretty. Laurent, too, had reassured him of the same thing on the plane, perhaps sensing Makoto’s nervousness. Makoto feels irrationally competitive, suddenly; he’s not a kid, as much as the others treat him like one sometimes. He’s the best con man in Japan! A rugged, hardened, international criminal! He’s done time in prison! He owns a gun! He’s not going to sit still and twiddle his thumbs while Laurent does all the work; he’s going to prove he can be useful. 

Laurent emerges from the bathroom, freshly shaved and smelling like ridiculously expensive cologne (something woodsy and spicy that makes Makoto want to lean in and breathe him in, ugh, he hates everything about this) and smirks at him lazily. He’s holding two matching rings in his hand, simple gold bands.

“Ready to go, mon chéri?”

Makoto narrows his eyes and makes up his mind right then and there to wipe the smirk off Laurent’s face and be the best fake husband ever. He can do this; he’s going to prove them wrong. He takes the larger ring, and rather than putting it on, stands up and steps towards Laurent to take his hand. Laurent’s hands are bigger than his, but they don’t feel awkward when he holds them. The backs are soft from hand cream, and the fingers are lightly calloused— not like Makoto’s hands, rough from carelessness and chores and work, but hardened in the way of the practiced musician or artist. They’re also warm. Makoto swallows. He forces himself to look into Laurent’s eyes without flinching as he slides the ring onto the other man’s finger. God, their faces are so close.

“Ready when you are, baby,” he replies, wavering a little on the pet name, and it sounds a lot less cocky than what he was going for. He can feel himself going red again and wills the blush away. Laurent does actually stop smirking, but now he’s got this unreadable expression on his face— like the surprised face he made when Makoto had slipped up earlier and implied Laurent might be attractive, but with a strange look in his (stupid, blue, stupid) eyes. Makoto doesn’t have time to think about it any longer, though; a moment passes, and then he belatedly realizes he’s still holding Laurent’s hand and drops it. When he looks up again, the easy, confident expression is back on Laurent’s face. 

Right. Mask on. He swallows again. He can’t screw this up. 

Laurent opens the door into the hallway, and Makoto follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello if you're reading this! This is my first time publishing a piece of a fanfiction; I've dabbled in the past, but I've never been brave enough to make an account and post. This is a pretty tiny fandom, but if you're here, I hope you'll stick around! I'll update the rating as I go, they'll definitely bang at some point but the word count is spiralling out of control and I have no idea when. I post on twitter here: https://twitter.com/Iavender_dew
> 
> actual notes:
> 
> \- the cologne laurent wears in this chapter is serge lutens santal blanc. I have no idea why, it just felt appropriate-- very expensive, very french, masculine white sandalwood and resin but with a touch of iris and pink pepper. I saw it while browsing perfumes online the other day at 2am when I couldn't sleep and it popped into my head when I was writing. in my head, laurent actually has quite a few different fragrances (he prefers fancy unisex perfumes to men's cologne, though he'll wear both) and he's the type to pick different scents for different occasions. he probably chose this one because he thought it would fit the character he was playing
> 
> \- maxim vandermeer is a ridiculous name, a mishmash of two fairly memorable names I've heard recently. this plotline is just a flimsy excuse for fake dating shenanigans, getting dressed up, and "oh no there's only one bed", so I'm sorry to all the real maxims out there and anyone reading this who has the slightest bit of knowledge about law and heist logic
> 
> \- I uh... don't know how to do italics on ao3! I have some italicized text in the google doc I'm using to write this, but none of the formatting carried over, so I'm hoping the emphasis isn't too wonky!
> 
> \- title is from "make me an offer I cannot refuse" by sufjan stevens :)


	2. Chapter 2

Dinner is a sumptuous affair in a restaurant-style dining hall overlooking the ocean, the tables laden with sweet cocktails, glistening entrees and delicate finger foods. Makoto immediately recognizes Vandermeer— whisky in hand, pretty, sad-eyed wife on his arm, nasty sneering grin— from the photographs in his files, but forces himself to let his eyes pass over him. They need to act casual; it’ll feel more natural if the man approaches them first. Laurent is sipping a glass of some fancy smoky sage thing that looks far more alcoholic than it actually is, pretending to loosen up and mingle and laugh loudly while keeping his head clear. Makoto drinks strawberry juice from a wine glass. He doesn’t need to impress anyone; they’ve worked out beforehand that it’ll look better if Makoto plays dumb and doesn’t seem to be interested in business at first. He can play good cop to Laurent’s bad cop later if he needs to. He just needs to trust Cynthia’s advice and hope he looks twinkish enough, whatever the hell that means.

Laurent looks good tonight. The jet lag doesn’t seem to bother him at all, and he looks as comfortable and languid as always, reaching over to grab pieces of food from Makoto’s plate and popping them in his own mouth. His hair is tied back loosely, and his jawline looks even sharper this way, strong chin and high cheekbones on full display. (Somewhere in the back of Makoto’s mind, he knows it’s probably weird to think of it as a display when Laurent’s just… existing, neutrally, with his face out, but it still feels that way.) Laurent takes another sip of the fancy not-bourbon and Makoto’s gaze travels downward as he swallows, following the movement as his throat works, looking at the smooth column of his neck, the bob of his adam’s apple. He tugs at his shirt; he feels warm, suddenly. 

The meal passes easily, both of them chatting just enough to hide the fact that they’re observing Vandermeer. And sure enough, after dessert (a delicious sticky-rice and mango concoction with coconut milk) has been served, and the waitstaff are making the rounds with coffee and water, the man of the hour approaches their table. His wife went up to their room long ago, but he’s still hanging around in the dining hall. Laurent looks up in polite interest, as if the two of them haven’t been waiting for this all evening, and offers him a seat. Introductions go smoothly, and Makoto lets Laurent do most of the talking in favour of watching Vandermeer watch him. His eyes are raking over Makoto’s body in a way that feels strange and a little unsettling. 

Laurent is telling the story of how they met. The best lies are grounded in truth, so the gist of it is this: Laurent was in Japan for a conference and decided to linger as a tourist for a few days (“the old rule against mixing business and pleasure is overrated,” he purrs, and Vandermeer chuckles in agreement). Laurent saw him on the street in Asakusa and fell in love at first sight, they bumped into each other and got their wallets mixed up (Makoto nearly snorts at this part and takes a hasty sip of juice to hide it), and when he realized the mistake, Laurent had found his phone number using the card in his wallet and insisted on taking him out to dinner to return it. Dinner turned into ice cream in the park, which turned into a romantic night at the hotel, which turned into breakfast in the market, and after a brief whirlwind affair in the following days, a lovestruck Makoto had followed him on the plane to L.A., since (in Laurent’s words) neither of them could bear to be apart. Makoto grows redder and redder with every compliment Laurent lavishes on him carelessly— he’s gorgeous, isn’t he, just the cutest, he looked at me with those big brown eyes and I had to have him, light of my life, my dearest, and so funny— and watches Laurent’s face for any sign of dishonesty, but he can’t find a single tell. Laurent calls him beautiful like he means it, and he does it so casually and easily that Makoto catches himself wanting to believe him. 

Laurent is a good liar, he knows this. It should make him happy; it’s a good asset for a partner in crime, and Vandermeer is lapping their ridiculously soppy backstory up. But right now, remembering that Laurent is a good liar doesn’t make him happy at all.

“S-stop it,” he mumbles, curling into Laurent’s side, trying to shake off the fluttery feeling that had settled in his stomach when Laurent recounted their first meeting from his perspective with the clear, shining eyes of someone telling a familiar truth, waxing poetic about Makoto’s seemingly endless good qualities with ease. Vandermeer seems to interpret this as adorably demure rather than genuinely uncomfortable, and turns his attention to Makoto. Laurent settles a possessive hand on Makoto’s hip, and Makoto hates himself for the way he relaxes into the touch without even thinking about it. He’s gotten soft. Laurent is a physical person, and somewhere along the way between crushing thank-god-you’re-alive hugs, I’m-here-don’t-worry hand squeezes and a hundred affectionate little hair ruffles and shoulder bumps, he’s started to enjoy it. Laurent’s hand on his hip feels a little different, though. He’s holding Makoto like a lover. Makoto starts to tense up again, but then Laurent’s hand starts rubbing in comforting little circles and he melts again in spite of himself.

“So you went for business and came back with a pretty souvenir,” rumbles Vandermeer, still looking at Makoto in that unsettlingly intense way. “He’s certainly a lovely little thing.” Makoto isn’t sure he likes being called a thing, exactly, but Vandermeer seems to be talking about him rather than to him, so he doesn’t say anything. Laurent tightens the hand on Makoto’s hip, but plays along. He brings his other hand up to tilt Makoto’s chin until they’re looking at each other, and then Laurent gently swipes the pad of his thumb over his lower lip, agreeing out loud with Vandermeer that he’s lovely indeed. 

His eyes are half-lidded, the beginnings of a lazy smirk playing on his lips. He looks confident and sure, the way he always does when he’s flirting with Makoto just to mess with him. His thumb is still resting on Makoto’s lip like an invitation, and his other hand feels like it’s burning into Makoto’s hip. It’s sensual and gentle and unbearably intimate and Makoto’s sure he’s as red as a beet, but he feels Vandermeer’s heavy gaze on him and decides that now is the time to make good on his resolution to surprise Laurent and prove he isn’t scared. Impulsively, he parts his lips for Laurent— it’s so easy, terrifyingly easy to open for him— and curls his tongue to pull the tip of his thumb into his mouth. 

Laurent’s eyes widen, and Makoto relishes the look of surprise. He did it! He caught him off guard! Who’s the nervous one now! That polished, practiced charm is faltering, being replaced by something heavier and more intense. So he sucks on Laurent’s thumb the tiniest bit, gauging his reaction, and feels a rush of power go directly to his head when he sees Laurent’s jaw drop— a small movement, just the parting of lips, but it means he’s surprised him. His heart is pounding out of his chest, but he doesn’t let up, instead taking the hand cupping his face and giving it an experimental kitten lick. Laurent’s skin still tastes like the sweet fruit they ate for dessert, so Makoto decides to go for broke while he’s at it and takes two of Laurent’s fingers into his mouth. Laurent honest-to-god gasps this time, a sharp intake of breath. Makoto sucks on his fingers slowly, lapping at the leftover mango juice. He suckles at his fingertips, then takes him deeper and rubs at Laurent’s skin with his tongue. It feels good; he feels dizzy with power, something hot and restless thumping inside him to the beat of his heart. He wants to do this forever, wants more of him, wants to taste him. He’s not even watching for Laurent’s reaction anymore. He doesn’t know if Vandermeer is speaking, he’s not thinking about Vandermeer at all, can’t hear anything but the blood rushing in his ears. 

Makoto pulls off Laurent’s index and middle fingers with a little -pop- and opens his mouth to start sucking the rest, and that’s when Laurent pulls his hand away. Makoto actually whines a little at the loss. Why is he stopping? He wants the sweetness of mango, the weight of Laurent’s long fingers in his mouth. He’s half forgotten where he was going with this in the first place. He tries to chase Laurent’s hand with his tongue, but Laurent clears his throat pointedly and pulls away, and Makoto snaps back to reality.

_“Darling,”_ he says, voice deeper and rougher than Makoto’s ever heard it. “Behave. We have company.” His words are lighthearted, but the tone is dark, miles away from the feigned carelessness he’d shown earlier. Makoto looks into his eyes and sees that his pupils are blown wide, blue eyes dark with that same strange expression he’d carried when Makoto had put on his wedding ring for him. He realizes Vandermeer is staring at him in earnest now, licking his lips. He also realizes he’s completely hard in his stupidly tight jeans and squeezes his thighs together in a vain effort to hide it.

“I apologize,” Laurent says. “He gets like this when he’s had too much to drink.” Makoto hasn’t had a single drop of wine all night and they both know it, but he nods anyway. 

“Don’t apologize, I love the enthusiasm. He can be as naughty as he wants around me,” replies Vandermeer without a trace of shame, like his wife wasn’t waiting for him upstairs. Ugh, at least pretend a little, thinks Makoto, working hard to keep the exasperation from his face. But he definitely looks interested, which is good. This is good. Anything for the mission. Right. Makoto takes a deep breath and wills his erection to go down. Thinking about Vandermeer’s predatory leer helps. The conversation picks up again, flowing smoothly thanks to Laurent’s charm, and Laurent doesn’t even look at Makoto once until he’s exchanged cards with the businessman (of course Laurent has fake business cards), said good night, and they’ve all parted ways with the promise of meeting again tomorrow. 

Laurent is quiet all the way back, and it’s only when they’re alone in their room that he looks at Makoto again. Makoto suddenly feels nervous and tries to explain himself before Laurent gets the wrong idea and starts thinking he’s a pervert. Or… well, he supposes that would be the right idea, technically. It’s been at least fifteen minutes and he’s still kind of hard (thank god for the tight jeans, thank you Cynthia, there’s no awkward tent in his pants giving him away). He doesn’t want to think about what that means.

“So that was good, right?” he asks, trying to be casual. None of the witty comebacks he had planned seem appealing anymore. He feels too shaky himself to be making fun of anyone.

“Yes,” Laurent says, just as neutrally. “He’s interested in our friendship. Tonight went even better than I anticipated.” Now he looks at Makoto. His eyes are still a little dark, but he looks amused again. “And you certainly caught his attention with that little trick of yours. Why did you go for my entire hand?” He sounds like he’s daring Makoto to give himself away. Makoto panics.

“You… you had dessert. On your hands. I was cleaning you up.” This is probably not his smoothest excuse. But Makoto doesn’t even know himself exactly why he had done that. He’d already made his point, he’d already gotten Maxim’s attention and surprised Laurent with his confidence. Why did he keep going? Why had it felt so good to lean against Laurent’s body and suck on his fingers and let him squeeze his hip? He waits for the inevitable teasing, but it doesn’t come. Laurent just looks at him for a few moments longer, and then, to Makoto’s amazement, he drops it. He just turns away and disappears into the bathroom, and Makoto hears the sound of the shower turning on. He doesn’t come back out for a long, long time. 

Makoto flops down on the king-sized bed— their bed, their shared bed that they’ll sleep in together, why is this making him flustered too— and groans into a pillow. He has a feeling he’s somehow bitten off more than he can chew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are getting spicy! This was an imaginary scene I couldn't get out of my head after watching the show, I pretty much built this whole fic around "what if Laurent brushed over his lip like that and then Makoto got all competitive and decided to one-up him and gets turned on sucking his fingers in the middle of a restaurant" and now this is shaping up to be the longest thing I've written in years. I've got like... 6000 words on my google doc dump, and I'm not even halfway done fleshing out all the sexual tension. Who have I become? Thank you to everyone who commented on chapter one and left kudos, your support genuinely makes me so happy! I'm too scared to share this hobby with anyone I know in real life, but it's pretty lonely being new and anonymous, so kind comments and feedback really make my day. Come talk to me on my shiny new fanfic twitter account: https://twitter.com/Iavender_dew (secret: the "l" is actually a capital i because the real "lavender" was already taken! I'm the one with the miffy icon (same as my pfp here) posting BTS filth, so no minors please) 
> 
> actual notes:
> 
> \- laurent is definitely jacking off in the shower to calm down. I'm writing this story from third person limited because I find makoto's inner monologue a bit easier for some reason, but it means we miss out on all the moments where makoto's totally oblivious and laurent is 100% whipped for him but not willing to push. if I ever finish this properly and I'm not sick of it by then, I might do a laurent pov so we can see him pine over his cute little protégé properly. a long af twitter thread at the very least
> 
> \- the dessert they eat is a thai dish I tried once and really liked, I looked it up and I think it's khao niaow ma muang? 
> 
> \- I regret giving the throwaway random villain a long name already. I've typed out "vandermeer" so many times it no longer feels like a real word


	3. Chapter 3

Makoto calms down after counting to a hundred in English and back down to zero in Japanese, face buried in the pillow all the while. Then he sits up and decides to change for bed, and he unzips the suitcase Cynthia packed for him, only to feel his heart rate go right back up when he sees the contents. 

He’s never worn clothes like this before. He thought the airplane outfit was kind of... out there already, but he digs inside the suitcase for pyjamas and comes up with nothing but silky dress shirts, swimsuits so short they look more like underwear, soft scraps of fabric that he thinks might actually be underwear (are those… lace panties? In the corner? And stockings? Nope. Not even going there). There are a few more pairs of absurdly tight pants, shorts that would probably hit around mid-thigh if he guesses generously, tank tops made of some kind of thin slinky fabric, and is that— yup, it is. Cynthia was not kidding about the robe. Makoto’s worn yukata before, but this is nothing like that. The garment is dark blue with a pattern of embroidered flowers and birds on the back. It seems designed to expose almost his entire chest even when belted, and there are slits that go all the way up the hips so his legs will show when he walks. He stares at the fabric in his hands. It’s very smooth.

Laurent, of course, chooses this exact moment to wander out of the bathroom with a towel slung low on his hips. He’s not quite dry yet; his face is still a little flushed from the heat, and Makoto can see drops of water running down his chest. He watches them slide down his muscles, down his abs, down past the wispy trail of golden hair low on his abdomen leading somewhere Makoto is determinedly Not Thinking About until the droplets splatter on the floor. Laurent is blinking at him with that same inscrutable expression and Makoto realizes he’s still holding the robe, silky fabric fisted in his hands. He yelps and flings it away like a hot iron, and it lands on the back of a chair. 

“It’s not what it looks like! I… I don’t think I have any pyjamas. But I’m not wearing that! There’s got to be another way.” He unzips Laurent’s luggage and starts rifling through his clothes as well, hoping to find something normal. 

Laurent is biting his lip very hard. Surprisingly, he doesn’t make fun of Makoto. Huh.

“I have pyjamas. The pants will be too big for you, but you can wear the top half at least,” he suggests. That’s not a bad idea, actually. Makoto digs around in the suitcase, making a mess of the carefully arranged items, and emerges victorious with a blue button-down pyjama shirt, tossing the pants to Laurent. Still embarrassed about being seen holding the robe, he shucks off his own clothes quickly without waiting for Laurent to turn around and tugs the pyjama shirt on. It really is too big on him, but that’s fine. The hem of the shirt covers the bottom of his briefs, skimming his thighs. It’s a strange effect; he kind of looks like he’s wearing a dress, or like he isn’t wearing underwear at all. His legs somehow feel more exposed than before. The sleeves are too long, and the cuffs cover his hands. He probably looks ridiculous. 

He looks up and sees Laurent staring at his legs, and his embarrassment doubles— he’s probably thinking about how skinny and childish Makoto looks, he’s never been able to put on muscle the same way Laurent does no matter how much he exercises. He’s been taking self-defence lessons between missions to catch up with the others, but it’s only made him leaner and more wiry, his thin limbs and soft white stomach firming up a little but refusing to actually make him more intimidating. He’s nothing like Laurent. Makoto glares at Laurent before he can say anything. “Don’t laugh.” 

But Laurent isn’t laughing; he’s biting his lip again. It actually looks kind of painful. Before Makoto can ask him why he’s being weird, Laurent ducks into the bathroom again to put the pyjama bottoms on, and Makoto scrambles into bed and pulls the covers over himself to hide his bare legs. Then Laurent emerges, and Makoto realizes this is actually a terrible idea, because sharing a pyjama set between two people means Laurent doesn’t have a shirt to wear. He’s dressed in just the pyjama pants and nothing else, and he looks a lot less shy than Makoto’s currently feeling. He’s heading towards him, climbing into bed beside him, so close that Makoto can feel the warmth of his body. 

“It’s kind of cute, isn’t it?” Laurent muses. “We match.” Makoto doesn’t know where to look; there’s so much skin. He shouldn’t be feeling this way— nothing weird about two guys sharing a bed, it’s a big bed, they’re not touching, it’s totally normal— but he can’t get the sweet taste of Laurent’s fingers out of his head. He settles on Laurent’s forearm because it feels like a safe choice. The skin there is covered in fine, downy blond hair, and unbidden, the image of a ripe peach comes to Makoto’s mind. Makoto makes an angry noise and rolls over so he doesn’t have to look at Laurent’s stupid muscles anymore. He’s going insane. He vows to stay perfectly still on his side of the bed and prays for morning to come. No touching Laurent. No looking. 

The mattress is so comfortable; he feels like he’s sinking right into it. He’s more tired than he thought, from the jet lag and the stress of the trip and Vandermeer’s bizarre flirtation. He thinks he should probably remind Laurent to stay on his side of the bed as well, but he falls asleep before he can say it. In his dreams, he’s biting into a soft golden peach, the white flesh tangy and succulent. Laurent is there too, his face so close, close enough to kiss. He’s leaning in close to take a bite of the fruit in Makoto’s hand. The act of feeding him like this feels tender, sensual. The juices are flowing from his lips, running down his chin. His mouth looks so sweet. 

— — 

Makoto wakes up plastered to a warm body. He’s happy and rested and more comfortable than he’s been in years; they fit together perfectly. He hums contentedly, still mostly asleep, and burrows his face into the crook of Laurent’s neck, sliding one leg up to pull him in even closer. He hears the quiet steady rustle of book pages turning, and something smells amazing, woody and warm and spicy and familiar-

Hold on. Laurent’s neck. Laurent’s cologne.

Makoto jolts awake and springs out of bed, pointing an accusing finger at Laurent where he’s still seated on the bed. “YOU! What were you doing?”

Laurent looks up from his book, a French-to-Japanese beginner’s guide to Kanji, and smiles cheerfully like Makoto hadn’t been wrapped around his shirtless body a second ago. “I didn’t do anything, I woke up an hour ago and you were already like that. You get clingy when you sleep. It’s very precious.” 

“You were awake for an HOUR? And you didn’t… you didn’t wake me up?” 

“You were so cute! You make these little noises when you get comfortable, and you kept snuggling into me and sighing. I couldn’t bear to wake you up.” Laurent looks far too amused, and Makoto wants to die. He imagines Laurent gently extricating one arm from Makoto’s embrace to get his paperback from the nightstand, lying still until Makoto woke up to avoid disturbing his sleep. It makes his stomach flutter. He squashes down the feeling valiantly.

Laurent is still smiling like he’s biting back a laugh. He pats the spot next to him on the bed invitingly. “Come, it’s still early. Only eight o’clock. You sure you don’t want to cuddle some more?” 

Makoto feels his face heating up again. “NO!” He runs to the bathroom, grabbing an armload of clothing from his messy suitcase. He hears Laurent laughing behind him all the way.

Laurent has a tennis match today with Vandemeer outdoors, and Makoto’s going to use that opportunity to “step inside for some water” and search the man’s room. The team suspects that he carries the hard drive with real evidence of his latest deal with him at all times, but it’s still worth a shot to see if he has a safe, briefcase or secondary cellphone around. Cynthia had packed a lock-picking kit for Makoto (tucked, mortifyingly, between a pair of periwinkle silk boxers and a tube of lip gloss) in the inner compartment of his suitcase. Still, he has to dress like he’s planning to go outside and watch them play. He lays out the bundle of clothes and considers his options. 

The shorts will have to do, since it’s hot outside, even if they show more leg than Makoto thinks anyone really wants to see from him. But he shimmies into one of the tank tops next, and the fabric is so sheer that his nipples are visible. Not exactly a deal-breaker—it’s not like he’s a girl, right— but he feels embarrassed for some reason by the way the shirt clings. He’s not used to seeing or presenting himself like something to be desired; it’s not entirely unpleasant, but it’s definitely strange. He stomps back into the bedroom to rifle through Laurent’s suitcase and helps himself to a soft white collared shirt with short sleeves (“why, thank you for asking permission, yes, help yourself,” says Laurent. Makoto throws the tank top at him and puts his middle finger up). It’s too big, predictably, but it’s sort of okay if he tucks it in. He waits for Laurent to tease him again, and still it doesn’t come. Laurent just looks him up and down, taking in the new outfit. 

“I’m going to run out of clothes if you keep wearing mine, you know,” he finally says.

“That sounds like a ‘you’ problem,” fires back Makoto. “We could always trade, and you could be the one to wear the weird robe.” But Laurent doesn’t really look annoyed. He just keeps looking at him. Makoto doesn’t know what to do with that, so they get breakfast instead, and he stops thinking about how it might feel to wear something Laurent really owns, something worn and faded with wear and smelling like his skin. 

The tennis match goes fine— Makoto knows Laurent well enough to notice that he’s letting Vandermeer win, missing shots he easily could have taken, pretending to be just a little less than evenly matched. Good enough to make the game fun, not enough to make him feel threatened. But Vandermeer doesn’t know Laurent, so he’s having a good time, huffing and puffing across the court and preening every time he scores a point (his wife is tanning in a lounge chair, looking utterly bored). Makoto slips out after a few games with the excuse of bringing them all drinks and makes a beeline for Vandermeer’s room. He’d already memorized the resort layout and the target’s room number on the plane ride over, so he takes the shortest route possible. They deliberately scheduled the tennis match around this time knowing that the cleaning staff won’t make their rounds yet, so he won’t be noticed.

He picks the lock easily, but a quick turn over the room gives him nothing. Diet pills, Viagra, foul-smelling cigarettes, a password-protected laptop, a briefcase— he picks the lock on that at well, but it doesn’t contain anything incriminating, just cash and work papers. The team was right, he’s definitely carrying it with him. 

Fine then, Makoto’s always been good at pickpocketing. The only person who’s ever been sharp enough to catch him was Laurent.

He runs back outside, snagging a tray and four glasses of lemonade on the way. He hands them out with an excuse— sorry I took a while, they were making a fresh batch— and Vandermeer squeezes his hand when he accepts the cold glass. Makoto wills himself not to shudder— ugh, his palm is so sweaty— and smiles up at him instead. Laurent takes his lemonade as well, face devoid of any trace of curiosity about the hard drive. He takes a long drink, emptying the glass, then pulls Makoto in and presses a kiss to his temple at an angle where the other couple can’t see his lips move.

“Kiss back once if you found it. Twice if no,” he whispers playfully, too quiet to overhear. Makoto shivers in spite of the glaring sunlight overhead. A kiss? He hasn’t kissed anyone in years. But he remembers the taste of mango juice in his mouth last night, and his heart starts pounding again. 

People are watching; it has to look natural. He can’t afford to hesitate.

He stands up on the tips of his toes before he loses his nerve and presses a kiss to Laurent’s lips. 

Laurent makes a startled noise and nearly drops his glass, and Makoto realizes that he probably didn’t have to kiss him on the mouth— Laurent kissed him on the temple, after all, no one was asking him to kiss Laurent on the lips, why on earth did he do that, he’s always jumping to conclusions— but before he can change his mind, Laurent starts kissing back. 

Laurent’s lips are much softer than they look. He’s kissing Makoto slowly, but firmly, like he’s done it a million times before. It’s good, so good, he’s so gentle but Makoto feels dizzy already. He feels the same way he did at dinner, hot and eager with Laurent’s fingers in his mouth. He’s having trouble remembering that they have an audience; he can’t think of anything aside from the heat of the kiss, the warm pressure of another man’s mouth moving against his own. It’s different from kissing girls, but not in a bad way. Laurent kisses him a little longer, one more press of his lips, their noses brushing together. Then he pulls back.

But Laurent had said twice for no, and Makoto hadn’t found anything in the hotel room. And to be honest, he’s never been particularly good at quitting when he’s ahead, so he sets his drink down and reaches up to take Laurent’s face in both hands to kiss him again. He opens his mouth a little this time, a silent invitation, and slides his tongue out the tiniest bit to lick into Laurent’s mouth. Laurent still tastes a little sweet from the lemonade, so he does it again, tilting his head and deepening the kiss until he can feel his tongue. It feels strange, but good. Makoto moans before he can stop himself.

He hears the sound of something shattering. Did Laurent drop his cup? It doesn’t matter, nothing matters because now both his hands are free and he’s putting them on Makoto’s body to bring him in even closer. His hands are big enough— or maybe Makoto’s small enough— that they nearly span his entire waist. Makoto has never been more aware of their size difference than in this moment, but right now he doesn’t mind it at all. Forget being jealous of Laurent’s height, he loves this, loves feeling held by him. Laurent’s tongue is in his mouth, and it’s weird and alien but mostly just really hot, and Laurent is kissing him like he _loves_ him, like he never wants to breathe again. 

Makoto moans again, louder, and one of the other tennis players from the next court over whistles in appreciation. This seems to bring Laurent back to his senses. He pulls away a second time and blinks away the dazed look in his eyes. Then he smiles his usual smile at Makoto, and picks up his racket. And just like that, he looks perfectly normal again, save for the rise and fall of his chest. But Laurent is breathing hard, and Makoto knows Laurent is stronger than he looks— he knows it’s not from the game. Laurent Thierry is out of breath from kissing him. The thought sits inside Makoto like a seed taking root. 

Laurent misses an easy ball to let Vandermeer win before the game goes to deuce, but then tennis turns into an interminably dull conversation at the cafe about the evils of free market regulation, and Laurent nods along and pretends to sympathize— yes, of course, it's ridiculous that those government suits think they know better than us, we should let the strong eat the weak— and Makoto sits beside him on the bench. His head is still spinning. He just kissed Laurent, and Laurent has kissed him back. For some reason, the fact that Laurent is a guy doesn’t really bother him much— it’s not the gay part that worries him, it’s the fact that it’s Laurent specifically. 

Not like I have any parents left alive to be disappointed in me, he thinks, deliriously, and almost laughs out loud. Then he feels guilty. 

Not much of the conversation sinks in, but luckily it doesn’t look like he’s expected to contribute, so he just mimics the bored wife’s body language and settles against Laurent’s side, trying to seem languid and uncaring. He can’t stop thinking about the kiss (kisses, plural! Makoto’s way in over his head). Once in the restaurant was a coincidence. Twice is a pattern he can no longer ignore. 

There’s a word for what he’s feeling, and he’s having a hard time pushing it down. 

But he doesn’t have to think about it just yet. Vandermeer is gesticulating wildly as he tells a story about a factory burning down and somehow manages to pin the blame on everyone but himself (Makoto’s read the reports, Vandermeer was the one who decided to cut costs by skimping on fire safety. He has less than zero sympathy). The sun is shining, happy couples are milling around on the terrace, and he and Laurent have work to do. There’s a word for what he’s feeling, but it’s fine. It can wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good god, this was supposed to be a sexy oneshot and it's spiralling into a monster. This chapter is twice as long as the other ones because I just couldn't find a good place to cut it off; one thing kept flowing into another, and I decided to cut out some things I originally wrote and change up the story, so... here you go! Consider it a belated Halloween present. I have tons more coming, I'm at 14000+ words now and I'm still not done (?!) making this the longest thing I've ever written, including schoolwork and all personal original projects (I've mostly done very short stories, scattered prose and poems). I've spent all afternoon writing a bunch of snippets out of order; I actually wrote the epilogue before I wrote them getting together, because I had a gambling scene I couldn't get out of my head. I'm going to take a break and catch up on readings tomorrow so I don't fail my classes and get double carpal tunnel, but I'm having an excellent time writing this. I really love these two idiots. 
> 
> Yell with me about them or anything else on twitter here: https://twitter.com/Iavender_dew  
> (my DMs are open now! someone told me yesterday they were closed, oops)
> 
> actual notes:
> 
> \- I figured out how to do italics!
> 
> \- I haven't played tennis since a few mandatory and disastrous attempts in childhood, so I had to research tennis rules for this just to make sure I remembered them correctly. I'm not sure why laurent is a good tennis player in my head, it just feels like the kind of thing he'd pick up at some point (and he'd look good in white). or maybe he's just like... reasonably competent, and vandermeer's really bad, and makoto doesn't know much about the game. whichever helps you suspend your disbelief better :p
> 
> \- I realized after writing the lock-picking part that most fancy hotels these days don't use keys, they use those little card reader things that you can't pick with a kit. but I got really attached to the idea of nasty little criminal edamura being good with his hands and the lock thing comes up again later in the next chapter I have planned, so I couldn't get rid of it. I warned you all beforehand that I'd try my best to have a decent plot but it's really mostly an excuse for UST
> 
> \- poor laurent is incredibly weak for makoto wearing his clothes. he's trying not to say anything for fear of making him uncomfortable, but it's going to be happening a lot, since I'm a big fan of the tiny shorts or no pants+oversized shirt look and I think makoto's really got the figure for it. the only reason he's not disappearing into the bathroom to jack off again is that he showered last night for the exact same purpose. I'm bullying him a lot in this fic lol
> 
> \- sweet things keep coming up in this story when it comes to laurent... mango dessert, the peach dream, lemonade. it's not intentional, though I have had the headcanon that laurent has a sweet tooth ever since I saw him drink a huge cup of bubble tea in that one episode
> 
> \- I speak french so I forgot to translate this earlier, but for non-french speakers, mon chéri from ch.1 is like "my dear/my beloved". it's a sweet endearment :)


	4. Chapter 4

Okay, alright, pause the action. Let’s back it up a little. 

It started with jealousy. Makoto isn’t entirely unfamiliar with the weird hot prickling feeling he gets sometimes around attractive men, but it doesn’t happen all that often and he usually chalks it up to being jealous. He isn’t lying awake at night worrying about his looks or anything, but he could probably be a lot better, and that seems like a reasonable explanation for his fixation on bigger guys or handsome faces— maybe he’s feeling insecure in comparison, staring at them hoping to attain their level of perfection. It doesn’t feel totally right, but it’s close enough, and what else would it be? After getting to know Laurent, he noticed the same hot feeling bubbling up inside him when he looked at him, only they were constantly around each other and the feeling wouldn’t leave. It didn’t always match up, either; Makoto had never been particularly insecure about his eyes, for example, but he couldn’t stop noticing how blue Laurent’s were. But it mostly made sense. 

Laurent is tall and well-muscled, firm chest and strong arms, all narrow hips and hard thighs and golden skin where Makoto is soft and skinny. Laurent had no sense of shame about his body from the beginning and frequently took his shirt off in Makoto’s presence to swim or shower or even just to cool off when it was hot. Makoto would look at the fine peach-fuzz dusting of blond hair on Laurent's chest or stare at his stubble and remember that he’s never been able to even grow a proper beard, that Cynthia had once cooed over the girlish smoothness of his legs when complaining about shaving her own. Makoto has never considered himself particularly masculine in a macho, sexy way, and Laurent is so ridiculously hot— like one of those shirtless guys on the covers of English romance paperbacks but combined with a high fashion magazine model— that it’s probably only natural to acknowledge it. So what if he thinks Laurent is hot? Everyone does. He has eyes. And if he blushes every time Laurent flirts with him, it’s because it’s… emasculating, or embarrassing, or maybe he’s jealous of how easily Laurent charms people. If the hot feeling sours into an ache every time he thinks about how many lovers Laurent’s had in the past or how many people he’s probably sleeping with right now, he’s just jealous of his sexual experience. Or something.

It didn’t really click until a fairly mortifying conversation with Abbie after the Singapore case, when everyone else was celebrating the new windfall and the two of them were the only ones who turned in early (Abbie doesn’t like parties, Makoto’s a lightweight). Makoto always got irrationally pissed off whenever he thought about Laurent’s playboy reputation, imagined his handsome face between some gorgeous woman’s thighs or his long fingers caressing their body. He felt restless, angry, when he imagined Laurent kissing someone else, confident and sure, maybe caging them in with his long arms or pressing them into the mattress. Or maybe a laid-back Laurent with his lazy smile, humming contentedly as a faceless lover pushed him up against a wall. Laurent, dominant and cocky, toying with his partner and making them moan. Laurent in submission, licking his lips and sinking to his knees, a wealthy heiress’ manicured hand tangled in his long golden hair. It made his heart beat double-time and he always got breathless and irritated. The feeling only doubled in intensity after the first time Makoto saw Laurent take a guy back to his room after a party, an equally handsome young man with glowing brown skin and a bright smile who spoke Hindi with a pretty, lilting accent. He hadn’t known until that night that Laurent liked men too. He had imagined the two of them tangled up together in bed, light and dark, and felt a dangerous feeling of possibility open in his mind, like a yawning fissure widening in the earth during a quake. Then he had gone back to the party and ordered a double shot of vodka for the first time in his life.

Anyway, the conversation with Abbie. Makoto, four drinks in by now and and red in the face, was trying to vent his frustration to Abbie in an incoherent rant, and she (stone cold sober and scrolling through her phone the whole time) had just sat there silently until he tired himself out, ranting and raving about Laurent’s various imaginary sexual partners. Then she had cocked one unimpressed eyebrow at him and replied, “Okay, so you’re jealous.” 

“Well, yeah, of course I’m jealous,” hiccuped Makoto. “He’s just- he’s so experienced, and he has all this casual sex like it’s nothing, and he does it so easily, he’s like that weird American song about sleeping with women in different countries-”

“...you listen to Pitbull…?”

“No! And that’s not the point! I just-” Makoto trailed off and hiccuped again when he realized Abbie was looking at him strangely. She sighed.

“Not jealous of HIM, moron. You’re jealous because you’re not the one getting railed. You like him. Think about it.”

“HUH?”

“No, seriously, think about it. Think about him making out with like, a random guy.” Makoto did, and he felt the familiar restless heat, accompanied by a painful twisting feeling. Laurent’s hand reaching out to cup the handsome guy’s face, Laurent’s lips brushing softly against a pretty mouth. It burned his insides, like all the alcohol inside him was turning into acid.

“Feels bad, right?” Makoto nodded dumbly. “Like, hot, but also bad?” He nods again. 

“Okay, now imagine him making out with you.” Makoto opened his mouth to argue, but Abbie kept looking at him flatly, so he closed his eyes and imagined it. Laurent smiling, leaning in. Feeling that crooked smile against his own lips. The heat intensifies, but the painful twist loosens into a soft ache, and the image is mesmerizing. Laurent kissing his neck, looking up at him teasingly. Maybe sucking a bruise into his shoulder, maybe saying his name in his stupid sexy French accent, calling him darling— 

Abbie coughed loudly, and Makoto emerged from his fantasy and tried to blink it away. He’d unconsciously tipped his head back like Laurent was actually there, breathing hard like he’s actually just been kissed, and he could feel himself getting hard in his shorts like a teenager. Abbie looked down disdainfully at his crotch and curled her lip in disgust. He yelped and covered himself with a couch cushion.

“See the difference? Ugh, this is why I hate men. You’re all just different flavours of stupid. Go sit on his dick and you’ll stop being so mad all the time,” she huffs out. “I’m done with this conversation. Don’t jerk off on this couch or I’ll kill you, it’s the most comfortable seat.”

And Makoto had been left alone, gaping, still half-hard, trying to squash a painfully clear feeling of realization. He woke up the next morning with only a hazy memory of the whole conversation, accompanied by a throbbing hangover and a sinking feeling in his stomach. He had vowed to never, ever unpack whatever the hell that was.

Except maybe it didn’t start with jealousy. Maybe it started the first time in L.A. during the drug bust, when Makoto, who had never shot a person in his life before and ran from spiders and loud noises and horror movies, had cocked his gun without hesitation after watching Laurent’s body crumple and known instantly that he would kill for him. Or maybe it started during a particularly close car chase in Moscow, when they had come screeching to a halt, surrounded by black vans full of guards armed to the teeth, and Makoto— who had still never shot a person in his life at this point— had instinctively raised his arms to protect Laurent, as if he could ward off the gunmen with his own fragile body. He knew in that moment that he would die for Laurent too. 

And then Laurent had taken off his bulletproof tuxedo jacket and wrapped it around Makoto and told him to run on the count of three while he distracted the gang leader, and Makoto realized that Laurent would die for him as well. 

Maybe it started the first time Makoto ever woke Laurent up from a nightmare. They were sleeping in separate beds in the same hotel room, and Makoto had been practicing with the lock-picking set while Laurent slept barely two metres away, trying to beat his time (Makoto was decent, and better than Laurent at combination locks, but Laurent could pick a simple key lock in under fifteen seconds behind his back and Makoto was determined to do even better). Laurent started mumbling snatches of French and shifting restlessly, but Makoto ignored him, focusing on being able to unlock their bedroom room with his eyes closed. Then Laurent started thrashing under his covers, and Makoto, alarmed, crossed the room in two quick strides to shake him awake gently. 

It’s okay, it’s okay, Laurent, I’m here, it’s me, he had said, over and over until Laurent’s eyes were no longer wild with pain.

Then Laurent had sat up and told Makoto about his mother, and growing up in Brussels, and the songs she used to sing to him when they walked together hand-in-hand. He skimmed over her death and all the bad parts that came later, but Makoto read them anyway in the tension in his shoulder and the tightness of his face. He told Laurent about his own mother— doing the same, only remembering the good parts back when she had been healthy, her gentle laugh and her love of cats and her favourite Japanese dishes. Then they sat together with the kind of mutual understanding of two people who knew the same painful loss— no platitudes, no awkward reassurances, just a soft, companionable silence— and watched the sun come up in the tiny hotel window. Laurent fished out a small box with a key lock for Makoto to practice on, and he worked until he could get it open with his eyes closed, then until he could do it with his hands tied behind his back, and then until he beat Laurent’s best time and got it open in thirteen seconds flat. By that point, the sun was already rising low and red in the sky. He grinned tiredly at Laurent, and Laurent smiled back at him and told him he did a good job. He looked beautiful in the early morning sunlight, even in pyjamas and rumpled hair, even with dark shadows under his eyes after a measly four hours of sleep. Makoto had looked at him and felt a terrifying fondness wash over his entire body, like he could look at Laurent forever and never be tired of it. 

Maybe it started way back on the beach in America before Makoto went to prison, when he had seen the miracle of Laurent alive and well and felt a relief so deep that it flooded him like a tide. Maybe it started the time Laurent, holding Makoto by the wrist, had told him to relax before a particularly stressful negotiation in Romania even though Makoto was sure he had managed to hide his nerves from the rest of the team. He hated being a burden to everyone else, hated feeling inadequate and green and anxious, so he had worked hard all that week to keep all the panic from his face, and he looked up at Laurent in bewilderment— how had he known? Makoto’s hands were steady, and he had his best poker face on. But then Laurent had started gently rubbing the underside of Makoto’s wrist with the pad of his thumb, and he realized that Laurent had taken his arm earlier so he could subtly check Makoto’s pulse and make sure he was okay. 

The realization felt like a soft, warm ache flaring up inside him once more, and he breathed deeply and let the tension leak away from his shoulders. He grabbed Laurent’s hand and squeezed it once, hard, before letting go, and then they stepped into the meeting room together and sold three and a half metric tonnes of fake cocaine without breaking a sweat.

Maybe it started that time they ate together in a hole-in-the-wall restaurant in rural southwestern China, just the two of them, their knees bumping under the tiny table as they slurped up rice noodles and exchanged favourites. It was a rare lazy day, for them both; just waiting on a delivery, nowhere to be and nothing to do but talk. Laurent’s favourite drink was traditional oude jenever straight from the freezer, Makoto’s was a tie between barley tea and coffee. Laurent liked dogs, Makoto liked cats. Laurent liked jazz and classical, Makoto liked rock and hip-hop. Laurent had a sweet tooth, Makoto preferred savoury foods. They bantered easily back and forth, laughing and eating from each others’ appetizers— spring rolls, dumplings, sesame balls filled with azuki bean paste.

“Favourite person,” Makoto had said as a joke, still laughing, expecting Laurent to name a hot celebrity or a cool movie character or maybe himself. 

Laurent had grinned happily at him, eyes dancing and clear and bright with affection, and said, far too sincerely:

“You.” 

Makoto had squawked loudly and told Laurent to stop messing around, and Laurent had chuckled and moved on, tossing Makoto another question (favourite smell? Easy, the air after it rains) and they never talked about it again. But the moment, along with a thousand other moments like it, lodged in Makoto’s belly and never really left. So it’s hard for Makoto to say when it started, exactly, only that it had definitely started at some point along the way and now he didn’t know how to shake it. 

There’s a word for what he’s feeling, and he isn’t brave enough to say it out loud. 

Makoto isn’t stupid, he knows Laurent flirts with everyone. He knows he isn’t really special. He knows that Laurent only calls him cute because he thinks it’s funny. He knows Laurent’s had his heart broken in the past and only wants sex, lots of sex with lots of people, no strings attached, and definitely not with Makoto. And Makoto really, really doesn’t want to think about why exactly that bothers him. It’s probably not because Laurent is a man: he sure got over that particular roadblock alarmingly quickly after kissing him only once. And it’s not jealousy, at least not wholly, and it’s not just attraction either (though at this point he’s willing to grudgingly accept that he’s attracted). But that leaves the door open for the word he doesn’t want to think about. So he channels all his sexual frustration into regular frustration, gets angry at Laurent whenever he feels the hot burn of attraction coming over him, and deflects all his compliments. 

Except now… Laurent had kissed him back on the tennis court, with tongue— more tongue than Makoto’s ever felt in his life, frankly, and he had dropped everything in his hands to hold him tightly like something precious. So maybe… maybe he does want it with Makoto. The wheels start turning in Makoto’s head. Maybe Laurent wants him back, at least a little, even if he doesn’t want anything more than sex. Maybe Makoto can seduce him, get it all out of his system and stop getting ribbed for being a virgin, kill two birds with one stone. There’s really no better time to do it; at least right now he has the excuse of being fake married which is great for plausible deniability, and their friends aren’t around to ask invasive questions or expose him. He probably won’t get a chance like this ever again.

Laurent almost never sleeps with the same person twice, so he’s going to have to play his cards right and make it count. The thought depresses him, but he shakes it away. Once is okay. It’s still way more than Makoto thought he’d ever get, and he’ll take it. Maybe once it’s over and done with he’ll stop going insane and wanting Laurent all the time, like sweating out a fever to make it go down. Operation lose-his-virginity-to-his-partner is a go. 

From his seat on the bench, Makoto narrows his eyes in determination. Laurent, oblivious to his inner monologue, looks at him curiously. 

“What are you thinking about, mon coeur?”

Makoto hums noncommittally. Might as well start now, right? No time to lose. He leans a little deeper into Laurent’s easy embrace on the bench. 

“Nothing, babe. Just thinking about how good you taste. Wanna kiss you more when we go back to our room.” It’s technically true, he had been thinking all of those things. It’s a half-lie by omission, and Laurent had always told him that the best lies are grounded in truth.

Laurent visibly gulps, eyes wide. Vandermeer is salivating from across the patio table. Makoto feels a surge of confidence and fights down a smug grin. He can do this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said I'd take a break today, but I had most of this written up beforehand so I decided to just go ahead and post it. The grammar here is... somewhere between mediocre and atrocious, and I mix my past tenses a LOT, but I really don't feel like reading it over a tenth time. Maybe I'll fix it up later when I've got fresh eyes. This is probably a good time to mention that everything I write is un "beta"-ed, as the kids say, and that I'm just a regular student flying solo and doing this for fun, so all of you reading, feel free to point of typos or errors if you spot them! Not to... crowdsource my proofreading, or anything. But just in case!
> 
> twitter plug: https://twitter.com/Iavender_dew 
> 
> actual notes:
> 
> \- parts 4-6 aren't out in my country yet, but I was afraid of making laurent too OOC in case what I wrote contradicted what happens later in the show, so I read the wiki and spoiled myself. it doesn't have too much information, but still, oh the sacrifices I make for the artistic integrity of my guilty pleasure slashfic! anyways, I learned that laurent was from belgium, not france, and I wound up going down a traditional belgian beverage research rabbit hole, which included reading the entire wikipedia article for jenever and wondering how my life came to this. it's an aromatic juniper liquor native to the region, and the oude variation specifically is aged in wood and has a smoother, smokier flavour. the highest quality oude jenever is served at room temperature, but it's traditionally served from the freezer, especially if it's cheaper stuff being used as a chaser. I like to imagine that laurent, while a man of expensive taste usually, picked up the habit of drinking liquor during the period in his life where he was young and short on money and living hard. so he would have been drinking the cheaper variants, ice cold from little shot glasses in dingy bars, and he developed a taste for it. it's one of the few habits he still retains from that time; he can afford the good stuff now but he still likes to drink it the old-fashioned way. 
> 
> \- ...I'm beginning to consider the possibility that I'm putting too much thought into the details
> 
> \- laurent definitely, DEFINITELY, does not want a one-night stand. he wants every string attached, all the feelings, hella commitment. but I'm gonna make them suffer a little bit first before we get to that >:)
> 
> \- "mon coeur" literally translated is "my heart". it's another cute thing to say to your lover <3


	5. Chapter 5

Makoto doesn’t like it when the team teases him for being a virgin— it’s undignified, and embarrassing, and makes him sound like a kid. He’s a grown man, he’s seen people naked (on the internet, occasionally) and one time a girl in high school had grabbed his hand and let him get to second base when they were studying together in second year. It was awkward and fumbling and kind of erotic, but mostly… odd. Then she had gone off to university, and he had failed to get a job after his father's arrest and resorted to petty crime, and there wasn’t really much scope for romance then or in jail or during con jobs. So now here he is, in his mid-twenties, and he still hasn’t… well. He really hasn’t. Period. Like in general.

Besides, this feeling with Laurent— this desperate, hot tension bubbling up inside him, the graceless desire to simultaneously crash their bodies into each other and kiss him softly on the mouth— this is entirely new. Makoto thought he knew what it felt like to be attracted to someone. He’s gotten butterflies in his stomach when looking at pretty girls, he’s had crushes, he’s been kissed a little, he’s slept with maybe 0.5 people total if you count generously. But this thing with Laurent— it’s a goddamn sickness. Makoto wants this man to wreck him. 

He’s familiar with the arousal that curls in his stomach when he sees pornography or gets himself off alone at night and imagines a hot, willing mouth sucking him in. And now he’s kissed Laurent and he really can’t stop thinking about it. However, in terms of what to actually go about seducing someone, he doesn’t even know where to begin (Abbie was right, that first day in the hotel when she said his inexperience wasn’t news). He heard rumours in prison of what men did together with the lights off, and dirty jokes in school, nasty taunts reserved for boys who were weak. He knows the… er, basic mechanics. But beyond that, if he does manage to convince Laurent to make good on all the innuendos and put his hands on him— Makoto shivers a little, involuntarily, thinking about being held the way he always imagined he’d hold a girlfriend someday. Thinks about sitting on his lap, sucking his fingers again eagerly, Laurent praising him, crooning into his ear—

— the arousal comes back with a vengeance, and he feels himself flushing already. Anyways. Focus, Edamura. Research.

Vandermeer (“call me Max”) and Laurent are becoming fast friends. Laurent’s getting ready to move to stage two of his plan: pretending to be just as sleazy and depraved as Maxim is and saying he wants in on the government bribery deal in order to extract as many recorded confessions from him as possible. They’re lunching today without Makoto, which means he has an hour to himself before Laurent comes back. He boots up the in-suite computer (it’s a fancy resort), opens a private browser tab, and— feeling exactly the way he did the first time he ever pickpocketed someone on the street and thought the police were waiting behind every corner to carry him straight to jail— he gingerly types in “gay sex”.

The results are kind of overwhelming. There are pictures of men tangled together in positions that look impossible, videos of acts that look frankly terrifying or just downright painful. There are also lots of pictures just of random naked guys, but none of them really make him feel the same way Laurent does, so he ignores them and clicks on the instructional articles first. His eyes widen into saucers as he reads. Oh, so that’s what “twink” means. He almost wants to texts Cynthia and tell her he’s offended, but then she’d know he only just looked it up and found out, and Makoto would rather let her have this one than endure another round of teasing.

Apparently there’s a lot of work that goes into preparing for sex, and you can’t just… go into it hoping it won’t hurt. Makoto had been expecting (not hoping, definitely not hoping) Laurent would just… carry him away and tear his clothes off and ravish him like hot guys did in movies, but it turns out it kind of has to be premeditated. He clicks on another article about prostate orgasms and does a double take as he scrolls down, then decides that okay, all the prep will probably be worth it. 

Besides, he only gets to do this once; Laurent won’t want him again after that. The thought is unpleasant, threatening to weigh him down, but he shakes it off. That just means he needs to get as much mileage out of this as he can.

After making sure he more or less understands the basics— no teeth if you’re blowing someone, be very, very thorough with personal hygiene, use protection even if you physically cannot get pregnant, and so on— his curiosity gets the better of him and he goes back to the previous page and clicks on one of the videos, selecting a thumbnail featuring a blond American man who looks a little bit like Laurent if he squints. He hits play, and his eyes get impossibly wider. It’s… wow, okay, no foreplay, they’re already naked and they’re just. Uh. Really going for it. He’s slamming into his partner like it’s a competition or something. Not what Makoto expected, but alright. Maybe it feels good. Would Laurent do that to him? The thought makes his head spin, and he shakes himself. Then the man onscreen starts talking. 

“Fuck yeah, you feel so good baby, so tight for me, you like that? You like my cock inside you? Just like that, take it, take it bitch-” and he slaps the other guy right on the ass, hard, and Makoto yelps and winces like he’s the one being hit. He has the guilty urge to look around him just to check that no one’s watching, even though he’s alone in the hotel room. There’s no way people actually talk like this, right? Does Laurent say this stuff during sex? Why is the guy in the video being so mean? He turns his head furtively and turns the speaker volume dial, hoping to lower the sound.

“Harder, daddy,” groans the smaller man kneeling on all fours, at full blast, and Makoto nearly passes out in disbelief. No no no no no. That can’t be a thing, right? There's no way that's a thing. The video is playing incredibly loudly; Makoto had turned the volume dial the wrong way. Shit, shit, please don’t let Laurent come back right now. He jumps up and away like the computer is a ticking bomb, upsetting the mouse, and powers the whole thing off just to be safe. _Daddy!? WHAT?_

Makoto decides that’s as good a place as any to draw the line; no more internet for today, maybe... ever, to be honest. He can’t imagine that ever being sexy. He decides to search the drawers for supplies instead; maybe he’ll find lubricant and condoms somewhere. He strikes gold when he rummages underneath the bed and pulls out a large box. It is a couples’ resort, after all, so it figures that they’d be… fully stocked, but the variety of foreign objects threatens to overwhelm him when he lifts the lid. There’s different sizes of condoms, half a dozen kinds of lube (plain, flavoured, something labelled “warming” that Makoto doesn’t have time to puzzle over) and a small pink device he recognizes as a vibrator, but everything else looks intimidating or just plain confusing. Handcuffs, ropes, gags, plugs, phallic toys that come in increasingly improbable colours and shapes, a riding crop, a collar and leash (what’s with all this animal stuff? Do people use this in bed?), some weird leathery thing— 

And then he hears the sound of a key turning in the lock, and he jumps, spilling the contents of the box all over the floor. He scrambles to put everything back inside, but it’s too late. Laurent is strolling cheerfully into the room with an almond croissant in his hand, balanced on top of a coffee mug. 

“Honey, I’m ho-ome! Vandermeer’s going to let me in on the deal, get those wiretaps ready for tomorrow! And look, I saved you a pastry-”

He stops mid-sentence and takes in the scene. Makoto is kneeling on the floor, frozen in place with one hand in the air, tiny lube bottles and assorted kink paraphernalia scattered around him incriminatingly. Laurent’s eyes zero in on the blue dildo in Makoto’s hand and he starts to raise his eyebrows suggestively, a smirk forming on his lips. Makoto wants to crawl into a hole and die.

“Is this the part where you tell me it’s not what it looks like? Because I admit we’re moving a little fast, but if you want to explore I’m very open to-” 

“GO AWAY!” screams Makoto.

“Fine, fine! I’ll go for a swim! See you at dinner! Mwah!” Laurent blows a noisy kiss in his direction, sets the croissant and coffee down carefully on a napkin, and bolts before Makoto can throw anything at him.

Makoto slumps back down on the floor. So much for stealthy seduction. The weather really is perfect for a swim right now, but he doesn’t want to face Laurent right away, so he settles in to work on the wiretaps. After sewing the little microphones and wires in various hard-to-find places into the lining of Laurent’s clothing and securing the transmission devices in a hidden compartment in his shiny leather shoes, he sits back to admire his handiwork. Then his stomach growls. 

He doesn’t want to eat the croissant Laurent brought him; the reminder of being walked in on is so embarrassing that it makes him go red all over again. So he avoids it out of principle for a while, but then it starts to look really tempting and he decides to reheat the coffee in the microwave and go for it anyway (no sense in wasting food). The first bite of the croissant is heavenly; light and flaky and buttery perfection, the powdered sugar topping melting in his mouth. 

The microwave beeps, and it turns out the coffee is made just the way he likes it. Two creams, one sugar, a little bit of nutmeg. Makoto doesn’t think he’s ever actually told Laurent how he likes his coffee. But Laurent’s brought him so many cups over the years— setting a mug down beside him when he’s working and dropping it off with an exaggerated smooch on the crown of his head while Makoto grumbles, taking him to coffee shops and diners and always refusing to let him pay— that somewhere along the way, he just picked it up by watching Makoto react to different combinations of coffee roasts and milk and sweetener. Makoto feels warm inside. He tells himself it’s just the hot coffee in his stomach. Laurent is good at that, figuring people out. He’s always been good at that. It doesn’t mean anything. 

— — 

The days pass easily, hot and sunlit; balmy nights and salty air, coffee and omelettes in the mornings, gelato by the ocean at sunset. Laurent’s hair gets a little lighter from all the time he spends outdoors, and he gets annoyingly, attractively tanned. Makoto tries to go out without sunscreen once to achieve the same effect and just gets a ruddy sunburn across his nose and cheeks. Laurent coos and rubs aloe vera into his face afterwards, despite Makoto protesting that he's not a baby and can do it himself.

Seducing Laurent is simultaneously easier and harder than Makoto thought it would be. They’re settling into a strange, loaded balancing act, a push-and-pull that gets a little more intense each day but never tips all the way. Laurent will say something flirtatious, Makoto will test his boundaries and push a little further, Laurent will respond positively like he’s definitely into it, but then he’ll find a reason to leave or pull away. Or sometimes Makoto is the one who breaks, leaning in close to push Laurent just a little bit harder and then turning away at the last minute when he feels like he’s losing his composure. They keep raising the stakes, then backing away, like dancers whirling away and into each other's arms in a ballroom. Or maybe it’s more like two boxers circling each other in the ring, sizing each other up, neither of them wanting to strike first for fear of starting a fight they can’t finish. 

Laurent starts using pet names more often even when they’re alone and there’s no one to pretend for, whispering _mon ange_ into Makoto’s hair and _mon trésor_ right into his ear when they wake up together in the morning (he still calls him "Edamame" sometimes though, just to make him mad). Makoto kicks his shoes off under the tablecloth at dinner one evening and runs a soft, socked foot up the inside of Laurent’s leg, a move he had seen on television once, just to watch Laurent’s fork halt and wobble satisfyingly as he’s raising a bite of melon to his mouth. Laurent, who always wakes first, hugs Makoto back when he clings to him in his sleep, slinging an arm around him to tug him even closer so they’re totally tangled up together when Makoto wakes up. Makoto lingers when he straightens Laurent’s tie for him before a formal dinner night with Vandermeer, smoothing his hands over the lapels of his jacket and hovering in his space, daring Laurent silently to lean in and close the gap. Laurent, concerned after the sunburn incident, massages sunscreen into Makoto’s back the next day in a way that feels way more sensual than strictly necessary, and Makoto doesn’t complain this time about doing it himself because he’s too busy trying not to get hard. He tries to get back at Laurent afterwards at lunch, when there are no free seats left on the beach, by asking if he could sit in his lap (and only stuttering a little bit, thank you very much). Laurent blinks up at him like he wants very much to say yes, but then another table with two chairs opens up and they migrate there without talking about it.

Because really, they don’t talk about it. At all. Which is fine by Makoto. Laurent thankfully doesn’t mention the dildo incident apart from a wink and a nudge after his swim, asking Makoto in a lazy drawl if he’d enjoyed himself (Makoto forgets to be seductive here and chokes on a stroopwafel, insisting vehemently that it was an accident). Still, he catches Laurent staring at him again when he steals his clothes and wonders if maybe that strange look in his eyes could be want, but he’s too afraid to ask. They don't kiss again, either. Makoto kissed Laurent first last time, and he’s too scared to be the one to bridge the gap again. However, he’s also too scared to make the request, and Laurent— for all he flirts— never really, truly makes a move on him, never puts his money where his mouth is. So they keep tipping the scales back and forth, keep circling each other, closer and closer. 

Talking about it feels like losing, somehow. And even more embarrassingly than that, it opens him up to the possibility of being unwanted. He was so determined about this seduction thing, rushing into it headstrong and confident like he always did, but now the idea of rejection terrifies him. If he doesn’t talk about it, Laurent can’t refuse him. 

Part of it is that he’s enjoying the silly moments just as much, if not more, than the flirting. Laurent isn’t always suave. They brush their teeth side by side in the bathroom like an old married couple, and Laurent somehow gets toothpaste all over his chin every single time. Sometimes they haggle over the covers like kids at a sleepover and it ends in breathless play-fighting, Laurent rolling around the bed holding the best blanket hostage, Makoto growling and pouncing so he can pin him, the whole thing far more funny than sexy, ending with them collapsing into tangled limbs and laughter. Laurent has the horrible, stuffy music taste of a feeble octogenarian. He plays the piano excellently, but he has an absolutely terrible singing voice. He loves fine dining but can’t cook to save his life, and is the kind of person who could probably mess up eggs and toast if left to his own devices. Laurent is the one who kills all the spiders when Makoto finds them and screeches for help, but confesses once to Makoto that he’s terribly afraid of horses. “It’s the bulging eyes,” he says, shuddering. “They disturb me. I made fun of you when I put you in that airplane with Abbie and you screamed, but I had to go riding once when I was conning a polo enthusiast years ago and I very nearly did the same thing.” 

Laurent isn’t always cool. He deflects from hard topics and dark secrets by turning questions around and making people talk about themselves instead. Makoto’s seen him wake up crying from nightmares about the past, reaching out in his sleep for a family he no longer has. He’s seen him face-down in a puddle of drool after staying up all night to translate a document into five different languages, laptop still open beside him, a red mark on his cheek where he’d slumped over and hit the hard surface of his desk. Laurent has an incredible tolerance for pain but absolutely hates being sick, even if it's just a cold. He’s seen Laurent down with the flu, sniffly and miserable, splaying out dramatically over every surface in the house and claiming he was on death’s door (Cynthia had hurled a container of medicine at him and told him to shut up already after the fourth melodramatic complaint). Laurent isn’t always cool, but he’s interesting and smart and challenging and genuinely kind, and Makoto likes him all the better for all the moments where he gets to see him be stupid and soft and human. Makoto hates how much he likes it, actually. Laurent isn’t a fever he can sweat out; he wants to kiss him forever, and he also wants to jump out the window of their shared room and swim all the way back to Japan or die trying so he never has to address that fact. 

So he doesn’t talk about it. Instead, he pushes, pushes, toeing the line between pretending to seduce Laurent and really trying, then pulls away. And he welcomes the distraction of the case. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm bumping the rating up to explicit just in case, even though the dramatic dirty talk in this chapter is just for humour. I can't believe I went into this intending to write a sex scene and be done with it and now I've got over 20k of shenanigans and pining; these two are individually pretty smart and competent, but when you put them together it's like they share one single brain cell. And that brain cell just bounces between 2 modes-- horny, and "I hate you but I'd die for you/"no I'll die for you first". It's incredible. 
> 
> yell at me on twitter here: https://twitter.com/Iavender_dew (be warned it's like 50% edarent updates and 50% bts porn headcanons)
> 
> actual notes: 
> 
> \- no shade to people who write or enjoy unironic daddy kink! I read it occasionally myself, if I'm being honest. I just think edamura's the type to go full steam ahead and start researching gay sex like it's a competition once he decides he's going to seduce laurent, as if he can learn all the secrets and impress him if he just tries hard enough. but random porn can be a kind of terrifying place to start-- there's so much extreme or unrealistic behaviour that gets normalized for show-- and he's still kind of baby, so I tried to have him react realistically and it ended up becoming a humour scene rather than a sexy one. also I just really can't see him getting into that due to him and laurent both having dad-related emotional baggage, but who knows! feel free to rec me a fic and prove me wrong ;)
> 
> \- I finally got to use the bit I wrote ages ago and used in the summary! I had that little snippet kicking around in my head since the beginning, who would've thought it would take me 10k words to get to it
> 
> \- "mon ange" means "my angel" and "mon trésor" means "my treasure". laurent is not kidding around, he's just genuinely a sap. I'm like... secondhand falling in love with him just by writing from edamura's perspective. need me a freak like this tbh


	6. Chapter 6

Phase two of the “befriend Vandermeer” operation is going remarkably well. He’s convinced that Laurent is a fellow crook and a kindred spirit, so he’s been confessing to and often even bragging about every depraved and illegal act he’s ever committed without restraint. Laurent has been pretending to be interested in every gory detail— egging him on, drawing story after story out of him. Tonight, Makoto is manning the laptop and listening through the wiretaps again, sending every single word straight to headquarters where they’ll make multiple copies for posterity. The two men are sitting by the pool with drinks and discussing the latest venture, a plan to bribe their way through the ministry in order to ensure lax security and worker’s rights measures in a particularly lucrative district. 

Vandermeer grunts as he takes a seat. “You’re still in, right? You’ve got that factory chain in the same area? Oh, and phones off if we’re talking business, please. I trust you, Thierry, but you can’t be too careful these days.” 

Makoto doesn’t bother to hide his smirk, alone in the hotel room. Laurent is probably making a big show of turning his phone off and sliding it over. Of course he can afford to. He’s got four more microphones right on his body.

He can’t see Laurent, but he can hear the smooth drawl of his voice through his headphones. “Of course, my friend. Why play by the rules when they were made to be broken? Tell me more about that Senator you mentioned yesterday…” 

And so it goes, Laurent humming and agreeing as Vandermeer unknowingly confesses to practically every detail, all of it recorded by Makoto. Laurent guides the conversation back effortlessly to the point Maxim made earlier about security, and it’s then that they really hit the jackpot. 

“It’s true, you really can’t trust the internet. And I usually have bodyguards to carry my things, but my old hag of a wife insisted we didn’t bring them along on vacation. Not romantic enough, she said. Women! Always whining for more attention. Here’s a tip for you, Thierry, snag ‘em when they’re young and drop them as soon as they start complaining. And never leave any data on your personal computer. I carry all my secrets with me right— “ he paused, like he was showing Laurent— “here.” 

Makoto held his breath. Was he patting his jacket? Pointing to his pants pocket? Makoto couldn’t tell just from the sound. But he knew Laurent had seen it. They’d need to act fast and kick-start stage three of the plan— steal, confront, and extort— in case Vandermeer decided to change the location tomorrow and hide the drive somewhere else. But Laurent couldn’t leave right after seeing it: too suspicious. Maybe he could steal it on his way out, pretend to trip and bump into him or something. Makoto hears him still talking, pretending to take the advice and be mildly impressed but not too curious. The conversation drifts into small talk, and back to relationships.

“You know, that Japanese boy of yours is really something,” says Vandermeer, and Makoto’s ears perk up. That’s him! Had he done a good job after all, seeming trustworthy? 

“He’s more… unpolished than I usually prefer,” the man continues, voice tinny in Makoto’s headphones. “I love a well-trained whore, and no offense, but it seems like you like them innocent and clumsy. But he’s cute, and he seems very sweet on you. That little display with the fingers that first night at dinner caught my eye. Would you be open to letting me have a turn on him?”

Makoto stiffens at the vulgarity. He feels a little nauseous. Vandemeer said it so casually, like Makoto was an object to be passed around. A souvenir from a business trip. Right. The word _whore_ echoes in his head, making him feel ashamed, suddenly, of all the touches and embraces he had shared so eagerly with Laurent in public. His cheeks burn with embarrassment— is that how he’d looked? Desperate? Dirty? He waits for Laurent to laugh and brush him off with a joke, or maybe even pretend to agree to stay in Vandermeer’s good graces. But nothing comes. 

Laurent is being very, very quiet. It makes Makoto nervous.

Makoto checks the laptop. The wiretap he had sewn into Laurent’s sleeve near the cuff, the one brushing his right hand, was picking up a lot of noise. Static, then quiet. Static, quiet. 

Like Laurent was clenching and unclenching his fist under the table until his knuckles turned white, hard enough to move the device. 

When Laurent finally speaks, his voice is completely flat. He sounds like a different person compared to the jovial persona he had put on before. 

“I’m afraid not. That’s my husband you’re talking about: I don’t like to share.” 

Makoto’s heart does a flip. The nausea eases a little.

Vandermeer scoffs. “Easy, now, it’s not like I’m going to steal him away. I just want a night with him, and he’s obviously gagging to use that pretty little mouth. You can stay the whole time if you want, watch him put on a show— or hey, I can be the one watching, I’m not picky. My wife and I have an agreement for this sort of thing, so you won’t get in trouble. Name your price. I’ll make it worth your while.”

Static. Quiet. Static. Quiet. Another uncomfortably long pause. 

Laurent’s voice is icy, now, no trace of friendliness to be heard. His breathing is steady and his words are controlled, but he sounds angrier than Makoto’s ever heard him. 

_“He’s not for sale.”_

A beat. Laurent has never spoken to him in this tone before. Makoto listens through his headphones as Vandermeer accepts the refusal, reluctantly, and Laurent tries to make a smooth exit, saying his goodbyes and promising to be in touch while Vandermeer lingers and orders another drink for himself. However, even from here, Makoto can tell the atmosphere of the conversation has shifted. Vandemeer doesn’t like to take no for an answer, especially not like that; they definitely need to get the drive tonight. 

Laurent never, ever breaks character during a con. Makoto has seen him smile pleasantly and crack jokes while staring down the barrel of an AK-47. Bat his eyelashes innocently as he bluffs through a game of poker in a mafia den with the worst hand Makoto’s ever seen in his life. He once insisted while being held up by the hair that he knew nothing about the scam they were working, so convincingly that the Russian mobster fisting his ponytail had let him go free on the spot. And he never loses his cool when he’s working; Laurent once broke two of his own fingers to get out of a particularly strong pair of handcuffs, and didn’t utter a single word until he was sure everyone else was out of the warehouse and safe. 

Laurent was the best liar Makoto knew, and he just messed up an easy conversation because he was angry that someone talked that way about Makoto. Makoto should probably be mad at him for compromising his relationship with the target, but his heart does another flip in his chest, a whole series. Somersaults, twists, cartwheels, double backflips. Sticks the landing. 

Then before he can actually sort that out and recover, Laurent is bursting into the hotel room, wild and apologetic. “It’s in the lining of his jacket, left side, over his heart, about this big!” He holds up his hands to demonstrate. “He’s got a secret pocket, he showed me. I’m sorry I didn’t get it, _merde,_ shit, I don’t know what came over me— “

“It’s okay! It’s okay, Laurent. It’s okay. We still have time. I can do it.” 

Laurent stops in his tracks, clearly about to start another apology. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. I have a plan.” Makoto doesn’t, actually. But he remembers the way Vandermeer was talking, eager to get his hands on him like a spoiled child breaking in a new toy. Makoto would have no trouble getting into his personal space. Normally that would be enough to put him off totally— it gives him the creeps— but he’s still high off the knowledge that Laurent feels protective enough of him that he’d risk an entire mission. He feels eight feet tall, like he could probably do anything right now. 

“He’s still there, right? By the pool? I’ll steal it right now. I’ve improved since I stole from you in Tokyo, you know I’m good enough, I’ve done it a thousand times.” Laurent is considering it, he knows from his eyes. Then he nods. 

They can do this. 

Makoto scans the floor, rummages through the closet. “I just need to change, quick! These stupid clothes are too tight, they don’t hide anything. I need something loose for pickpocketing, something with big pockets and tons of fabric. Something easy to move in. And long sleeves, wider than this, so I can use them to hide the drive…”

He trails off, looking around the room for something that would meet all of these requirements. He and Laurent both slide their eyes slowly over to the blue silk robe hanging on the back of the chair. 

Uh-oh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much for no plot, this chapter is all heist stuff! I'm considering changing those self-depreciating tags, this is way more story and less sex than I thought it was going to be. Though it was mostly an excuse to write protective Laurent lol. I get to experience the malicious joy of ending on a cliffhanger for the first time ever! What a rush! Not that any of you are likely in much doubt that it's going to turn out just fine for Team Confidence. 
> 
> It's been kind of cathartic writing Max as the sleaziest of sleazy yellow fever assholes knowing he's going to get taken down in the end, but if anyone finds him too disturbing, I can put a warning on this chapter and the next one just in case. Spoilers (for my own fic...), but he's going to get a a little handsy when Makoto goes through with the theft attempt; I've done my best not to sexualize it or romanticize it at all, and I've kept it very brief and non-explicit. Makoto's also fully capable of handling himself and goes into it purposefully holding all the power in this situation, intending to manipulate him, and can back out or beat him up at any time. So I didn't think it was quite enough to merit a groping/noncon tag on the whole fic, but it might be creepy to read, so let me know if you want a trigger warning or just a heads up! I'll probably be uploading the next chapter tomorrow, since most of it is already written. 
> 
> yell at me about kinky or wholesome headcanons alike on twitter: https://twitter.com/Iavender_dew (I've also been rereading haikyuu!! for the first time since high school to catch up, since it ended fairly recently. so yell at me about volleyball too if you want) 
> 
> actual notes: 
> 
> \- I am terrible with tech irl and made it halfway down an article about how wiretap devices actually work before I gave up and went to bed. I already have the sketchiest and longest ever browser history due to the process of writing this fic-- I've researched (and this is a small selection!) cocaine market prices over the years in different countries, eight different varieties of poker, diamond heists, enema instructions, speed lockpicking records, and different cuts of custom-made bulletproof suits. not to mention the entire paragraph about jenever you all probably remember, and some light googling about types of mens' formal footwear and computer hard drive sizes and weights. I decided I would draw the line at relearning the physics of electronic transmission technology and just hope no one questions it
> 
> -"merde" is the french equivalent of "shit"; it's a curse word. 
> 
> \- I honestly didn't know where I was going with the robe thing when I wrote the first chapter; it started as a joke, turned into a running gag, and now it's practically becoming a major plot point. it's based on a vintage silk house robe currently hanging in my closet, actually, but like... a sexier version, half that and half lingerie. everyone say thank you cynthia for packing it :3


	7. Chapter 7

“I don’t like this,” says Laurent slowly, before Makoto can beat him to it.

“Hey, that’s my line! Why are you getting upset?” For some reason, even though he was just about to refuse to wear the damned thing, Makoto now feels determined to go through with it just to contradict Laurent. 

“You were the one complaining about it all this time!”

“Yeah, but we’re running out of options here! What if he’s on his way back to the hotel right now? Do you want the evidence or not?”

“I know, but it’s too-” Laurent makes a wild gesture with his hand— “sexy?” 

“What, you think I can’t pull it off?” Makoto snaps. “I know it’s going to look dumb, you don’t have to remind me, but we’re wasting time right now.” He pulls his shirt (one of the impractically tight ones, he’s run out of Laurent’s clothing) over his head and starts to work on his pants, too angry and keyed up to care about modesty. 

Laurent gapes at Makoto as he shimmies out of his pants and pulls the robe on. “No, that’s… what? That is not the issue. How could you ever think that was an issue? I’m worried you’ll pull it off too well.” 

“What the hell does that mean?” Makoto is distracted, tying the sash around his waist and fastening it before he can change his mind. Laurent is still staring at him with his mouth wide open and a growing look of awe in his eyes. Huh. 

“Nothing,” mutters Laurent unhappily, still staring. “You look stunning. He’s not going to be able to keep his hands off you.” 

Oh. _Oh._ Makoto really wishes he could pause and dwell on that. Laurent’s looking at his collarbones and chest like he’s never seen anything more fascinating in his life. Well, that was actually good, Makoto’s counting on the creep not being able to stay away. But he doesn’t say so, even though he kind of wants to trigger Laurent’s protective side just to see it again; he just grabs a thin stack of hotel cards that look about the same size as the hard drive Laurent had approximated with his hands, then tapes them together tightly. He hopes the bundle will be similar enough in thickness and weight to fool Vandermeer. He slips the dummy drive up his sleeve, grabs his room key, and runs off to find him. 

He’s not difficult to spot; the pool is empty, and so are the surroundings. It’s getting late. Makoto slows his place as he approaches him by the poolside, pretending he’s just noticed, like he has to think for a moment before he recognizes him. 

“Maxim? Good evening! You are Laurent’s friend, right?” 

Vandermeer looks pleasantly surprised to see him. He’s raking his eyes over Makoto’s body again, and Makoto silently bemoans the leg slits in the robe. He can’t get totally comfortable around this guy after hearing his conversation with Laurent earlier; he feels a little bit like he imagines a cut of meat might feel inside a supermarket display. But it’s fine. He’s fine. He can do this. 

“Yes, that’s me. Though I think he’s in a bad mood today. Snapped at me for no reason. He’s very possessive, you know.” 

“Oh, no,” says Makoto, arranging his features into a sympathetic expression. “Maybe he’s just feeling cranky today. I haven’t seen you in a while! How are you?” Step, step. Getting closer. He wants to cross his arms over his body, but he keeps them relaxed and lets Vandermeer look at him. This is good, actually; if his attention is on Makoto’s body, he won’t look at his hands. Maybe he’ll let his guard down.

“I’m fine as always, getting better by the minute. Don’t you look nice tonight? Come here and keep me company, cheer an old man up.” Vandermeer pats his lap in a way that’s clearly supposed to be inviting but is really anything but. Ugh. Makoto remembers the files, he knows very well Vandermeer didn’t really have an agreement with his wife. He’d only said that to try and soften Laurent up, and now that that approach hadn’t worked, he seems to be gunning for Makoto directly. Two-timing asshole probably thinks everyone else is just as willing to cheat as he is. Makoto remembers distantly that he and Laurent aren’t actually married so no one’s cheating on anyone here on their end, but it still gets on his nerves somehow. 

“Sure!” Makoto chirps blithely, hoping he sounds cheerful enough. He sends a silent apology to Vandermeer’s wife and makes a mental note to send her a copy of the recordings with a fat stack of cash so she can finally leave the bastard. Then he very gingerly sits on the very edge of his lap, trying not to breathe in the sour cigarette smell that tainted his skin and clothing. Makoto pretends to stumble a little at the last minute, pressing his hands up against the man’s chest to steady himself, feeling for the hidden pocket Laurent had told him about. Score.

“Oops! Sorry, I didn’t mean to fall,” he says, stalling for time. Vandermeer grunts and takes this as an invitation to run a clammy hand up Makoto’s thigh and squeeze hard. Makoto jumps and tries to squirm away, but Vandermeer seems to see this as some kind of coy flirtation on Makoto’s part and squeezes his other thigh even harder. Makoto feels kind of gross, but he forces himself to concentrate. He slides the dummy drive from his sleeve to his hand and then into the inner pocket of the suit in a flash, removing the real thing at the same time so Vandermeer never feels a change in the weight or feel of his jacket. Perfect. He’s holding enough information about him now— quite literally up his sleeve— to destroy his career and possibly his entire company. 

“I love your eyes. They’re so exotic. Can’t help myself around boys like you.” Huh? This is genuinely puzzling to Makoto, who grew up in Tokyo seeing brown eyes every day and thinks of pretty much every aspect of his face as perfectly ordinary. The word exotic makes him think of tiger skins mounted on a wall. But Vandermeer doesn’t really need a reply; he seems absorbed in groping Makoto, inching his hands up dangerously close to his ass. Makoto squirms harder. He can’t risk pissing him off yet, he doesn’t want him noticing anything is wrong.

He tries for polite. “Please don’t touch me, I have to go.” 

“So soon? But you just got here.” 

“I, uh. I can’t do this. Laurent will be mad at me.” That seems like a reasonable excuse, honestly, but then Vandermeer is tugging him closer and telling him Laurent doesn’t need to know, that he knows everyone has a price, that he’s a wealthy man and he’ll give him as much spending money as he wants just for an hour or two alone. Makoto grimaces and swears internally to increase the bribe from two hundred million to three hundred. Take him for all he’s got. Vandermeer squeezes Makoto’s thighs harder, and it actually kind of hurts a little now. Okay, he’s officially noping out. This is getting too uncomfortable. 

“Maybe… tomorrow? We can continue. In secret. Not here, he will find out.” There won’t be a tomorrow, obviously. Vandermeer’s a little drunk and usually goes to sleep around this time, so he won’t discover he’s been duped until morning. Makoto and Laurent will have the rest of the night to copy the files, send them to the team, and start booking their plane tickets to Belgium. But Vandermeer doesn’t know that, so the lie does the trick. Vandermeer looks incredibly pleased with himself, and Makoto really, really wants to deck him. Four hundred million euros then, fine. Make him sell all his houses and cars. He’s not going to need them in prison anyway.

The older man loosens his grip after one last leg rub, and Makoto slips away quickly, transferring the drive from his sleeve to the pocket of his robe. Vandermeer already looks like he’s nodding off in his chair. Good. Makoto keeps his posture relaxed as he walks off, only breaking into a sprint when he knows he’s out of sight. He makes it back to their room in no time. Laurent whips his head up when he enters.

“Did you-”

Makoto reaches into his pocket and holds up the drive triumphantly as an answer.

Laurent breaks into a wide smile and springs up to hug Makoto so tightly he almost crushes his ribcage. Makoto hugs him back, laughing, drunk off the victory and feeling invincible. He forgets about maintaining the balance of the scales for a minute, forgets about playing the whole seduction game and just squeezes Laurent back happily, breathing in his warm spicy scent until the cloying smell of Vandermeer’s cigarettes is completely gone from his nose. 

Laurent transfers the files— client profiles, transaction records, meeting notes between Vandermeer’s men and known criminals— onto their work laptop and sends them off for the team to copy. Makoto texts Cynthia to tell her they’re coming soon, and gets the address of the safe house in Bruges they’re using. He books two first-class plane tickets on his phone using Laurent’s black credit card. Then they’re done and smiling at each other again, Laurent looking at him proud and affectionate, Makoto still warm and tingling from the hug. Neither of them looks away.

“I still can’t believe you’re wearing that,” chuckles Laurent. There’s no bite to it, just fond amusement tinged with something a little bit wistful, but Makoto huffs anyway.

He tips his chin up, a challenge. “I just saved your mission, you don’t get to make fun of me.” 

“I’m not!” 

“Besides, earlier you said I looked ‘stunning’. Maybe you like it.” He keeps his head cocked at a haughty angle, but feels himself starting to blush a little. He’s pushing again. Testing Laurent’s sincerity, approaching the line they’ve drawn between them.

Laurent grins. “Maybe I do. I’m not making fun of you, I swear it. You should wear it all the time. I like the colour on you.” Makoto blushes harder. How stupid. Obviously Laurent looked better in blue than he did. It matched his eyes. But he decides to push a little harder. The thrill of getting away with the theft is making him bold.

“Just the colour?” Makoto tilts his head so his posture looks cocky, but the words come out a little less sure, betraying him. Still, Laurent’s eyes widen. Makoto loves that expression on him. 

“Of course not,” replies Laurent. “I mean it. Look at you! You look delicious. I want to take it off you and eat you up. Anyone would.” He laughs, gently. 

Makoto’s mind is sprinting way ahead of him, picturing Laurent doing just that, sliding the silky fabric off and devouring him alive. Kissing him hard, biting his neck. But then Laurent looks away, and his voice grows soft and painfully honest. 

“I always mean it, every time. You never believe me. ” Makoto’s brain screeches to a halt. 

Once in a middle school art class, Makoto’s teacher had brought out a book of optical illusions— faces turning into vases, impossible staircases, bodies hidden in the lines of skulls, M.C. Escher tessellations, Salvador Dali paintings. He had spent the entire break sitting inside and flipping through the pages, spellbound by the images. A picture of a young lady with a feather in her hat, once you flip a switch in your brain, suddenly becomes an old witch. Turn the book to a different angle, and a sailboat becomes a cloud. He loved the bizarre feeling of looking at a picture in a different way and seeing something else. 

He feels the same way right now. Like he’s been looking at this thing between them one way for so long, for years, and now he’s rotating it just a little— shifting his gaze, turning it over— and watching it turn into something different. Or maybe realizing it was something different all along. 

Pushing, always pushing closer to the boundary and pulling away. All the teasing, the touching, circling each other tighter and tighter. Laurent had meant it every single time. Why did he wait so long? This is his chance. Makoto steps over the line and erases it.

“Then do it. You… you could, if you wanted to. I’d let you.” 

Laurent blinks. “Let me do what?”

“Take it off.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't kidding about the joy of writing my first cliffhanger, here's another one for you to follow that up! Poor Makoto's so, so close to realizing just how gone Laurent is, yet so far. Don't worry, chapter 8 will be up tomorrow and it's shaping up to be 6 pages straight of frustrating yet extremely silly emotional dialogue. This whole section of the story is just Mako having one big realization after another (ft. long-winded metaphors). 
> 
> talk to me anytime here, I love comments/DMs --> https://twitter.com/Iavender_dew
> 
> (sometimes when I'm afraid too much of my personality is coming through in my writing-- like my adolescent love of surrealism that began with a childhood love for illusion art, or the robe that I actually do sort of own, I consider dropping the paranoia and letting a few irl people--who also write fic--in on this secret project. but then I realize they'd find my newly created twitter, since I plug it in the notes section of every chapter, and they'd see the bts incubus AU gangbang concept I posted like 2 days ago, and I really don't think they'd look me in the eye quite the same way after that. maybe I'll remain a mysterious pseudonym-carrying shadow on this corner of the internet forever! it sounds rather exciting, put like that. and I've always liked the name lavender, even if I didn't go into this intending for it to anything other than a placeholder username.) 
> 
> actual notes: 
> 
> \- at the risk of further giving myself away, the "ooh you're so exotic that's sexy"/"wait what I was born in asia surrounded by people who have these features so I always thought I was just a regular person" moment was also inspired by personal experience. I kept maxim's appearance pretty vague (I just sort of picture him as pasty, generically gray-haired and gray-eyed, on the older side of middle-aged) but he's definitely one of those white guys who are casually racist and super sexist but also have a poc fetish. maxim is a slavic/roman name and vandermeer is dutch, but I just realized I was relying on the name and some heavy assumptions about his appearance from that to make the moment work, so this is just clearing up his ethnicity in case anyone was picturing him differently and getting confused. 
> 
> \- there's a lot of stuff I just wrote randomly in the first few chapters, like the clothing gags, without knowing they might be setup for later. I didn't know laurent was belgian when I sent cynthia and abbie to bruges, I just picked a random city. but now maybe laurent+mako can join them there and have an excellent time when they're done with the case? laurent can tell him more about his childhood and they can bond some more :') it'll be so romantic :') 
> 
> \- oh the irony of makoto getting embarrassed by how corny laurent is and then thinking, without a trace of self-awareness, that blue brings out his eyes


	8. Chapter 8

“Undress me,” Makoto repeats. “Eat me up.” His heart is pounding.

Laurent licks his lips like he really, really wants to. His eyes are so dark.

“It… um. It doesn’t have to mean anything,” Makoto amends, hastily, before he gives himself away. “I know that’s how you like it. It’s fine! I’m not, like, asking for marriage. Though I guess we’re married right now already, kind of. Um.” He feels awkward again, suddenly. Still hot and heady with anticipation, but nervous too. 

Laurent’s eyes flicker, and then something hard appears in his expression. Makoto feels like the energy between them, so intimate and loaded a minute ago, has changed. He’s made a mistake, but he doesn’t know why. Laurent only holds Makoto’s gaze for a beat longer— hard, inscrutable— before looking away. 

“No.”

“NO?” Makoto says, incredulous. He’s not going insane, right? He knows Laurent wants him, he has to at this point. He just said so, told Makoto he meant it, that he always meant it all along. But a sinking feeling begins to form in his stomach. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe Laurent doesn’t want him, never did; he’s teasing again, he’s even better at pretending than Makoto thought. Or maybe it’s even worse. Laurent is seeing right through him and knows just how desperately he wants more than this.

He feels very small, suddenly, and looks away, biting his lip. “I mean. I- okay. Sorry. I just thought you wanted-”

Laurent makes an exasperated noise between a growl and a grumble. “I did. I do. But I’m not doing this. I’m not sleeping with you.”

“You sleep with everyone!” blurts out Makoto, as a retort. He knows he sounds petulant— implying Laurent is a bit of slut probably isn’t helping his case— but he can’t help it. 

Laurent buries his face in his hands, sounding pained. “Yes, well, I’m not actually a public resource, you know. You don’t… get a turn on my cock because everyone else did. That’s not how this works.” Makoto coughs to cover up a choking sound. The sound of the word _cock_ coming out of Laurent’s mouth in his deep, rolling accent does things to his insides. 

“That’s not what I meant! Just… um. Why not? I thought for the longest time that you didn’t want me, and you were just flirting because that’s the way you were. And then I thought maybe you were doing it to tease me. And then we came here, and I thought you were just being a good fake husband, but then you kept flirting even when we were alone, and THEN just now you said you thought I looked good, so why-”

“-Because I’d like it to mean something, actually!” snaps Laurent, sounding distressed and raking a hand through his hair. “And I’m not… deflowering you, for lack of a better word, if you’re just doing it to try to prove yourself somehow, or to know you can, or because you’re horny and you think I’ll do. I can’t do that. I can’t give you that. I’m sorry.”

Makoto opens his mouth to argue, but then the rest of the statement actually hits him and he just stares. Laurent still has one hand covering his face. The other one looks dangerously close to pulling his own hair out by the roots. 

Laurent would like it to mean something.

He wants it to mean something. He wants Makoto, and he wants him more than just this once. Makoto feels something dangerously hopeful start to blossom in his chest. He rises from his seat on the bed and walks to where Laurent is standing, steps forward until he’s in his space and he can feel Laurent breathing hot against his skin.

“Laurent. “ Laurent doesn’t move. 

“Laurent, look at me,” murmurs Makoto. Laurent takes a deep, pained breath, exhales audibly, and releases his own face to look at him. 

“I… uh, when I said it didn’t have to mean anything…” God, this is so intimate. He’s so close that Makoto can count his eyelashes, long and golden and pretty. But he’s come this far already, and he’s not backing down now. “I didn’t mean that it was what I wanted. I thought that was what _you_ wanted. I thought you’d only want me for… fun? And I was willing to take what I could get.”

Laurent looks puzzled, but the tension in his face is loosening. Makoto swallows and continues. 

“Do you remember— in that village in Sichuan, ages ago, when we were eating together— when you said I was your favourite person?”

“Yes,” Laurent replies, immediately. The Sichuan delivery was over a year ago, but he replies easily, like it was yesterday. Like he’s been turning over the memory regularly in his head like something precious, exactly the way Makoto has. The hope in Makoto’s chest rises. He swallows, once, twice.

“You’re my favourite person too,” says Makoto, very quietly.

Laurent is looking at him in earnest now. The hard edge has left his eyes, and he’s not smiling yet, but he looks like he’s about to. Makoto soldiers on. Like it or not, he’s in it now, he has to talk about it. It’s all or nothing at this point.

“I. Uh. I like you. A lot. I’ve never had a boyfriend, so I’m not good at this, but I- I like it when you’re with me, and when you talk to me, and I want to be together a lot, and every time you touch someone else it makes my stomach hurt.” He looks down at his feet and feels his ears going red. “I’m not just, um, horny, either? It’s not like you’re convenient so you’ll do. I’m pretty sure I only want _you_ to touch me. Vandermeer kept rubbing my legs earlier and it felt really weird, I thought I was going to puke.”

Laurent frowns at that last part, brows furrowing and hands tightening. He looks angry again, protective (it’s kind of alarming how hot that is, but they can unpack that another time). Makoto raises a finger to shush him preemptively, though, and Laurent settles down; he’s not done talking about his feelings yet, and he has to get it all out now or he’ll lose his nerve. They’ll revisit the whole sexy possessive thing later.

“Look, I didn’t say anything because I thought it was, um. Lame…? But I didn’t really want…” he gropes for the English word for a while, and Laurent waits patiently. “... a fling,” he finishes, quietly. “I want it to mean something too.” 

Silence. Makoto continues to stare down at the floor, at his bare, bony feet, which look even more naked in front of Laurent’s polished calfskin wingtips. An eternity passes, and he feels his stomach start to sink again. Then he realizes Laurent’s shoulders are shaking, but he isn’t making a sound. Alarmed, Makoto looks up at him— did he break him? — and he realizes Laurent is actually _laughing._

“Hey, I’m trying my best! Don’t laugh at me! Asshole!” Makoto cries. “Do you have any idea how embarrassed I am? Idiot— “ 

But Laurent is grinning at him with his whole face, eyes crinkled at the corners, beautiful in his happiness. 

“Makoto, you kept all this to yourself because you thought it was… lame? To be in love with me?” He’s still grinning. Smug bastard. Makoto hadn’t even said the word, hadn’t even so much as dared to whisper it to himself when he was alone, and now the secret was out already.

“Yes, fine, damn it,” Makoto spits out. “Stop laughing at me! So what if I love you, that’s my personal problem! And it’s definitely lame, it’s so lame, you’re the most annoying person I know and I’m in love with you! Out of all people!” 

Laurent manfully tries his best to stop smiling, closing his lips over his teeth, but does not entirely succeed. It results in a hilariously pinched expression. 

“If you keep laughing, I’ll change my mind, I swear. I’ll stop being in love right this second,” threatens Makoto. 

“Darling, I’m not making fun of you.” Makoto glares at him. “Well, alright, it is a little funny, but I’m laughing because I’m happy. This is definitely not your personal problem. I adore you.” Laurent is smiling again, warm and big and happy and so earnest Makoto could die. 

“How was I supposed to know that? Until two weeks ago I didn’t think you even wanted me at all, and then I thought there was no way you wanted anything more than casual.” 

Laurent looks right into his eyes, suddenly serious and intense, and it’s just as devastating as the earlier smile. “I want everything with you. I love you to death.”

Makoto had been wrong about the optical illusion earlier. It was changing again before his eyes, the picture he had constructed being turned upside-down, all of it finally clicking into place. Laurent loves him. _Laurent loves him._

Another memory comes to him, unbidden. One time when Makoto was a little kid and his family hadn’t yet collapsed into a total disaster, his parents had taken him to a theme park and convinced him to get on a rollercoaster, saying something about facing his fears by turning them into something fun. He had hated the ride all the way up, shaking in fear of the drop to come. And he had hated the drop even more, screaming the whole way down and bursting into tears as soon as he got off. But there had been a moment right between the two, where he was perched on top of the curve and could see everything below him, where he had felt a strange kind of weightless euphoria. Like his insides were floating and everything beneath him was tiny, like he was hovering on top of the world. 

He feels like that right now. Laurent loves him to death, he adores him. The words echo in his head and reverberate until their vibrations fill his entire body.

Laurent is still talking. “I thought I might be the one taking advantage of you, since we’re only pretending to be in a relationship for the case. So I didn’t take things further. But I told you on our first night here— I’ve had it bad for you ever since we stole each others’ wallets on the street and you followed me to Los Angeles. I couldn’t tell Vandermeer that bit, of course, but the rest was true. Big brown eyes, et cetera. You were adorable.”

Makoto gapes. That had been _years_ ago. They hadn’t even known each other back then, and Makoto had been a shitty little street crook. “Wait, I tried to pickpocket you thinking you were an innocent person, and you were INTO it?” 

“I liked the confidence! And you blushed so cutely when I hugged you. Then you followed me into the cab and all the way to America, and you turned out to be an absolutely excellent thief. I wasn’t kidding about the puppy eyes. You’re very handsome.”

Makoto stares at him in disbelief. “Laurent, I hate to ruin the moment, but has anyone ever told you that you have terrible taste in men?”

“There’s nothing you can do to ruin the moment, that robe still looks positively indecent and it’s falling off your shoulder as we speak. You’d have to shoot me in the leg to kill the mood.”

Makoto flushes and tries to fix the robe where it’s sliding off, exposing most of his chest. “Oh my god, you’re impossible. What’s the expression again? A one-track mind?”

“Your English improves every day, mon amour. And you’re not wrong, but I also need to point out that you were the one who invited me to undress you. Those are dangerous words. Someone might get the wrong idea.” Laurent practically purrs. Makoto blushes harder. 

“...Well, I thought you weren’t going to want to sleep with me more than once, and I was worried you’d change your mind if I started talking about it too much. I wanted to surprise you.” 

“You were absolutely wrong, I’d like to sleep with you any chance I get. ‘One-track mind’, remember.” Makoto huffs out a laugh in spite of himself. “And you always surprise me, Edamame. You’ve been doing it since the day we met.”

Makoto digs his nails into Laurent’s arm for the stupid nickname (Laurent doesn’t even flinch, asshole), but he finds himself smiling in spite of his best efforts. He feels deliriously happy, relief pulsing like light throughout his entire being. 

Laurent is smiling too, dreamily, like he’s remembering something. “You definitely surprised me that day on the tennis court when you kissed me on the lips. You could have just pecked me anywhere else, you know. Or tapped on my arm to signal— I know you and Abbie were learning Morse code together a few months ago. You wanted to kiss me that badly?” 

Makoto’s ears burn. It hadn’t even occurred to him to use code and refuse to kiss. But he couldn’t bring himself to regret it, not now that he had the possibility of a thousand more kisses right in front of him. Laurent loves him back. He can kiss him any time he wants. The possibility is dizzying.

“Shut up,” he says, inelegantly. He feels like he’s going to explode.

“Come here and make me,” counters Laurent, grinning wolfishly.

Makoto leans in until their lips touch and does exactly that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I really went into this fic thinking I couldn't write dialogue and came out with so.... SO.... much of it. These two idiots just won't shut up in my head. I promise they will actually bang in the next chapter and I'll earn that explicit rating I keep teasing, I just had to get all the feelings out first-- I didn't want angsty oblivious mutual pining sex on top of all the suffering I've already put Makoto through. Though now that I mention it, that's certainly an idea to keep in mind if I ever have time on my hands and feel like making myself sad...
> 
> fandom twitter plug: https://twitter.com/Iavender_dew
> 
> actual notes: 
> 
> \- this is like 3 separate confessions each, just one after the other; I know it's a lot, I feel like I'm punching them from a new angle every paragraph, but... in a loving kind way? so they get their act together??
> 
> \- resolving the main emotional conflict is an oddly bittersweet feeling! I complain a lot in the comments about this fic taking over my life, but I've had a really fun time writing it too. things are going to wind down soon-- I have the rest of the story pretty much wrapped up on my doc-- and I'm almost sad to see it go
> 
> \- writing dialogue between these two is an interesting exercise because even though most of the show is translated in japanese, all the communication happens in english. and it's made clear in the beginning that they both have heavy accents and neither of them speak quite like a native english speaker would-- they're communicating with each other through a slight filter. I learned english pretty early on when I was a kid and it's become my primary language, the one I'm most comfortable using, so I've had to sort of unlearn that and read all my dialogue scenes over, keeping their canon voices in mind and asking myself if they sound too similar to one another or if they sound unconvincing in general. I've tried to write mako as someone who's like 90% fluent and who knows a lot of expressions and phrases from consuming english media and pop culture, but who still occasionally searches for the correct word to express what he means when speaking out loud. my japanese isn't very good, so if any japanese-to-english learners want to suggest tweaks I'm open to it! 
> 
> \- "mon amour" means "my love" :)
> 
> \- I've been wanting to write a "shut up"/"make me" kiss scene since I first watched season 1, I've finally done it


	9. Chapter 9

In the beginning, back when Makoto had been blissfully ignorant of his own attraction (can he really call it blissful? It was more agonizing than anything, he was mad all the time), being touched by Laurent twisted him up inside and made every inch of him sensitive and alert. Laurent pulling him for a hug, pressing up against him, whispering in his ear— it had all felt exciting and awful at the same time, every nerve a live wire, overexposed and frighteningly good. But now he doesn’t have to jerk away anymore, or feel ashamed without knowing why. He has a name for this feeling now, and he’s allowed to feel it; allowed to just sink into it and stop holding himself together so tightly and let Laurent take him apart for once. Every touch loosens something inside his chest, every kiss unties a knot he didn’t know he was holding inside him. It’s nothing like his fantasies, the ones where they crashed against each other angry and fast and hard until Makoto won whatever stupid competition he thought sex was going to be like. It’s nothing like the aggressive internet videos, either, simultaneously a little hot and a lot degrading. Underneath Laurent’s careless demeanour, which Makoto has always suspected isn’t carelessness at all but rather the kind of certainty that comes with absolute confidence, Laurent is actually very, very gentle. 

Every move he makes is deliberate and confident, but also slow, careful, unbearably tender. He kisses Makoto again and again until he’s dizzy, No teeth, no teasing, just the firm, warm press of his lips and the tiniest suggestion of tongue. He’s got one hand, steady and warm, holding Makoto’s waist— not groping or sliding, just supporting him— and the other hand moves from his chin to rest on his thigh. There’s no rush; he kisses like he’s got all the time in the world. So it’s Makoto in the end who tugs at him and moans, embarrassingly loudly, and opens his mouth for Laurent in a wordless plea.

Laurent obliges after a little nip at Makoto’s lower lip, turning his head a little and deepening the kiss. It’s hot and wet and somehow still disgustingly romantic, and Laurent is doing this thing with his tongue that makes Makoto weak in the knees. Laurent notices him wobble and guides them so they collapse onto the bed, and then he’s kissing him again, harder and just a little bit dirtier, hands gripping tighter. Makoto moans again, but he’s a quick learner, and soon enough he’s just about giving as good as he gets. He’s so focused that he doesn’t even realize that he’s hard and moving desperately against Laurent’s thigh until Laurent reaches up under the robe and palms him with one hand. Makoto breaks the kiss and gasps. Laurent looks down at him like he’s about to ask if he’s okay, and Makoto makes a frustrated sound and arches up against him. He doesn’t want concern, he wants more friction.

“More, more, please, come on-” Laurent growls a little in response, nipping at his neck, but then he’s sucking there gently, lapping at Makoto’s skin with his tongue. Still holding back. 

“So impatient,” Laurent murmurs against his neck. “Most people like it slow if it’s their first time, you know. You’re like a little devil.” 

“I’m not most people,” retorts Makoto, panting, and Laurent huffs out a laugh into his shoulder. He’s so turned on it actually hurts, a hot ache inside him pulsing and burning. “We can do it slow later, next time, please, please— “ 

Laurent sucks harder at his neck, still not hard enough to leave a bruise, but he indulges Makoto and unties the sash of his robe, pulls his underwear down, leaving him almost entirely bare. The contrast between their bodies feels obscene; Laurent still fully clothed in a tight button-down and tailored trousers, hair pulled back elegantly, looking as polished as always except for his mouth, which is a little redder than usual from the kissing. Makoto spread out naked underneath him, flushed and eager and fully hard, soft blue fabric pooling around his body and barely hanging on. 

Makoto arches up again impatiently, but then Laurent is sliding his hands up and thumbing at his nipples, and Makoto lets out a thoroughly undignified yelp. He’s never touched himself here before— it hadn’t occurred to him to try— but his nipples are hardening and Laurent’s fingertips are rubbing him so steadily, gently, sending unfamiliar shivers of pleasure all the way down his body. 

“Wh-what are you doing? Stop it, I’m not a girl—  _ ah _ !” He’s cut off by his own surprised cry when Laurent pinches one small pink nub and twists, just a little. It’s embarrassing, so embarrassing, but it feels so strange and intense and good that his toes are curling against the mattress.

Laurent smiles a little, still infuriatingly composed compared to Makoto, and reaches down to palm his erection again. It feels even better this time, skin to skin. “Oh, believe me, I’m aware,” he drawls. 

Makoto tries to narrow his eyes at him for making a joke, but then Laurent is sliding his hand back up to roll both of his nipples, now almost painfully sensitive, between his thumb and forefinger. He ends up whining instead. 

“I just had a hunch that you might be sensitive here,” continues Laurent, still toying with him all the while. “And I was right. You’re incredibly responsive. Gorgeous.” His eyes are heavy-lidded, and he’s looking at Makoto through his eyelashes. He pinches his nipples and tugs, just the tiniest bit, not enough to hurt but definitely enough to make Makoto jolt clean off the bed and cry out. He feels himself start to leak, mortifyingly, onto the fabric of Laurent’s trousers. Laurent doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest. His eyes go even darker when he notices the mess.

“Please,” Makoto tries again. He’s not entirely sure what he’s even asking for, but he spreads his legs anyway. “Touch… touch more? There. And you can do it inside, too. I practiced. I’m ready.” 

Laurent makes a strangled sound. “Practiced?” 

To be honest, Makoto actually didn’t get very far in that regard, since they share a room and spend so much time either together or working on the case. And he’s pretty sure that cleaning himself out and sitting in the bathroom against the door last night with instructions pulled up on his phone, tentatively pushing an experimental finger inside his ass, and then jumping up and yanking his pants back on when he heard Laurent knocking was… one of the least sexy things he’s ever done. But Laurent is looking down at him in disbelief, so Makoto tries to sound convincing.

“Yes. I uh. Learned about it online? Here, I got this— “ he reaches over into the nightstand on his side of the bed, where he had hastily hidden the bottle of lubricant to avoid being caught. He fishes the tube out of the drawer and flings a handful of condoms onto the bedspread too.

Laurent’s eyebrows skyrocket up in alarm. “Are you sure? You really want…” 

God, why is he hesitating so much? Makoto’s literally naked right now, it should not be that hard to talk Laurent into sex. Doesn’t Laurent like this? Isn’t this the kind of thing he likes? Makoto whines again, frustrated.

Laurent still sounds a little strangled, but the whine seems to do the trick and convince him; he’s reaching for the bottle. “Okay, okay, all right. But you need to relax, I need to get you ready if you want this. And you need to tell me if it feels bad so I can stop right away.” 

Makoto feels the back of his neck burning red, but he nods. He remembers this part from the phone instructions, they have to do this first or it’ll hurt too much. 

Laurent, still looking a little dazed, like he can’t believe this is happening (which is weird, thinks Makoto, because he’s probably done this a million times, shouldn’t he be used to stuff like this?) rubs at his entrance with slick fingertips and pushes his middle finger inside slowly. He’s as gentle now as he was in the beginning, careful and steady. Makoto gasps. Laurent’s hands are bigger than his own, his fingers longer. This is totally different from that awkward solo bathroom experimentation session. It doesn’t hurt, but it feels like a lot, somehow, even though it isn’t— Laurent isn’t even moving. He waits for what feels like an eternity, letting Makoto get used to the sensation, before very, very slowly pouring more lube onto his fingers and pushing another one in. Okay, woah. Makoto suddenly feels very full. His stomach tenses up and he forces himself to breathe. He’s going to have to be able to take a lot more than this if they’re going to actually have sex, after all. 

“M-more. I can handle it. You don’t have to baby me, I’m strong enough,” he pants out, because Laurent is being infuriatingly slow and Makoto would rather die than be coddled, virginity be damned. The stretch is a little painful, but it also feels good, a sort of burning sensation on the verge of too much. He knows he’s pushing it, but he can probably take more if he tries really hard, so he grabs Laurent’s hand in a way he hopes looks sexy and confident. But Laurent blinks up at him, confused, and then seems to realize something. He brushes Makoto's hair back from his forehead with a look of soft amusement.

“I’m not babying you because I think you’re… weak, or something,” he says. “This isn’t about being able to handle it or not. I’m not in a rush; I’m not going anywhere. Don’t hurry because you think I’ll like it better.” He flexes his fingers expertly inside Makoto, then relaxes again, rubbing just a little bit inside him. Makoto’s breath hitches. 

Laurent continues, his voice low and gentle. “I like _ this _ , you know. I like making you feel good. You really are stunning— we could stop right now and I’d probably still die a happy man if the world ended tomorrow. So quit being so stubborn and let me take care of you.” He curls his fingers a little more and the pads of his fingertips rub against something unbearably sensitive inside him. Makoto’s entire body jumps and he makes a sound like he’s dying. He doesn’t try to push Laurent anymore, just lies there and lets himself feel. The reassurance is actually really nice, warming him from the inside. Laurent keeps taking his time, dropping little kisses on his chest, teasingly flicking the tip of his tongue over one nipple, looking up often to look at Makoto’s face attentively. Makoto turns his head and looks back, and he realizes with a start that this is just like the time Laurent had held his wrist to take his pulse without telling him. Laurent isn’t just looking at him, he’s watching his face carefully for any sign of discomfort or pain so he can slow down before Makoto even says anything. Makoto feels another helpless wave of affection sweep over him. 

Another eternity passes before Laurent finally works a third finger into him, and by that point Makoto’s moaning in earnest pleasure, rutting up against Laurent’s thigh, making soft little  _ ah, ah, ah _ sounds, about to start begging again. Laurent’s fingers feel so good right now that he’s not rushing to prove himself anymore— he just really, really wants this.

“I-I want you to feel good. Wanna make you feel good,” Makoto babbles. Laurent is massaging inside him and it’s weird, so weird, but also amazing, the last of the pain having given way to pleasure long ago. He moans again and spreads his legs wider unconsciously. The robe is barely hanging onto his body at this point. He probably looks like a mess right now, but he’s too far gone to do anything about it. Laurent chuckles.

“Trust me, I’m having the time of my life right now. You have no idea how good you look, spread out for me like this. You really blush everywhere, did you know that? Here— “ he pecks Makoto’s flushed cheek— “ and here— “ a nip to his chest, where the blush had spread— “and here— “ he squeezes Makoto’s ass with one hand, and Makoto squeaks. Laurent brings that hand up and wraps it around his leaking cock, cooing when it twitches. “Here, too. Look at the tip, it’s almost as red as your cheeks. So pink, and so sensitive. It’s adorable.” Makoto tries to protest— how the hell can someone's dick be  _ adorable _ , that’s definitely not a thing, Laurent is so embarrassing— but then Laurent starts stroking the shaft, teasing the head with his thumb, and Makoto just lets out a noise that almost sounds like a dry sob. It should probably be humiliating, how big Laurent’s hand feels, how easily he can close around the shaft and stroke Makoto’s entire length with his long fingers. But Laurent is everywhere, around him and inside him, hot and familiar and smelling as warm and comforting as he always does, and Makoto can’t bring himself to mind a single thing about any of this. 

He’s panting, squirming, and Laurent still looks way too put together on top of him; still fully clothed, barely breaking a sweat, only a few strands of hair out of place. Makoto wants to change that. 

“Y-you can do it. Please. Now, Laurent, or I’m going to come,” he stutters out. It’s so much, too much, Laurent’s fingers inside him and on his cock. He’s so ready he could scream.

“Do what, hm? You can’t even say it out loud. Are you really sure you’re ready? Maybe I’ll just make you come like this, you look like you’re enjoying it.” Laurent sounds smug again, he’s using his oh-you’re-so-cute teasing voice. Makoto wants to bite him. Bastard. 

He narrows his eyes. Fine, then. Have it your way. “Fuck me, Laurent,” he snaps, but it comes out a little breathy and desperate, and it’s extremely satisfying to watch Laurent’s eyes widen and grow impossibly darker. He’s really never going to get tired of that look. If Laurent asks him one more time if he’s sure about this, Makoto will lose his mind. He’s going to die if Laurent doesn’t stop being stupidly, endearingly noble about this and just get inside him already.

He draws on what he remembers from the less terrifying English porn videos he watched and continues, throwing caution (and dignity) to the wind. “Please?” he tries again. “Put your cock inside me, fill me up, wanna feel it-” 

“Mon dieu, where did you learn to say those things?” Laurent swears under his breath— a string of French curses— but he finally does as he’s told, drawing his fingers out and unzipping his pants in record time, rolling on a condom and slicking himself up, pushing inside before Makoto can answer. He moans at the sensation, the delicious hot fullness, even better than Laurent’s fingers. He was fully prepared to endure some pain, but it never actually comes. Laurent had the right idea, taking his time working him open; it feels so good this way, even if Makoto’s never going to give him the satisfaction of admitting it. Laurent moves carefully inside him at first, the drag of his cock slow and intense and just on the verge of too much, but then he settles into a rhythm and his hips are beating a gentle tattoo against Makoto’s body, soft blond hair coming loose from his ponytail as he leans down to kiss his neck.

Makoto is a little terrified by the way he isn’t terrified at all. He should probably be freaking out since it’s his first time, he thinks deliriously, like he’s crossed some big gay boundary, or given something that can’t be taken back. But Laurent, rather than looking down where their bodies are joined, pauses to take his hand and intertwines their fingers. He looks at Makoto and brings their faces together, so close that their foreheads touch, and then gives him a soft little peck on the lips before pulling away. Laurent feels like home. He feels inevitable. He’s been crossing every boundary Makoto has since the day they met. He starts thrusting again, and Makoto tips his head back, melting. The softness of Laurent’s lips kissing down his neck, his strong hands holding Makoto steady as he rocks his hips into him— it feels right, like the slotting into place of some piece he didn’t know was missing. So he doesn’t close his eyes. He looks right up at Laurent, and Laurent looks back at him, and he’s so beautiful like this, flushed and open and golden and wild-eyed in the light of the hotel room after dark, that Makoto— agnostic at best— wants to thank every deity in existence and possibly the entire nation of Belgium for letting him have this. He wants this to last forever, but he feels an unbearable pressure building inside him and he knows he’s not going to make it.

“Are you holding back?” asks Laurent, inconveniently perceptive. “It’s all right if you’re close, you can come. I’d like to see you.” He kisses Makoto’s collarbone sweetly.

“N-no way,” Makoto lies through his teeth. “We just started. You’re gonna have to do a lot better than tha- AH-” 

Laurent laughs, but he calls Makoto’s bluff and grips his hip harder, driving into him even faster, and fine, fine, there’s no way Makoto can hold back now. He cries out and clutches Laurent’s shoulders as he shudders through an orgasm so intense it almost hurts. Laurent tries to slow his movements to give him time to come down, but Makoto clutches him harder and bites his neck. 

“No, no, don’t stop, fuck you, don’t you dare stop,” he pants, and Laurent laughs again but he sounds out of breath as well this time. He slams back into him and fucks him through the aftershocks, Makoto trembling and overstimulated and squeezing down on him, impossibly tight. This should probably be gross, Makoto thinks in the back of his mind, hazily. They’re both sweating, covered in Makoto’s come, and it’s fast and hard and messy and there’s slick dripping from Makoto’s ass and leaking down into the bedsheets. He’s still got his mouth on Laurent’s neck, trying his damned best to leave a mark, and he can actually hear the obscene rhythmic slapping sound of skin against skin. It should be gross, it really should be, but Laurent is fucking him and yet he’s still  _ holding his hand _ like he never wants to let go and it feels like the closest thing Makoto’s ever had to a religious experience. 

Laurent thrusts harder, once, twice, and then he’s moaning, low and broken, and coming inside him, and he looks gorgeous coming undone. It takes Makoto’s breath away. Makoto tightens up again around his cock without meaning to, and it draws another ragged sound out of Laurent. Wow. Definitely filing that away for next time.

The possibility of a next time warms him as Laurent, gentle once again and somehow still able to walk properly, pulls out to throw the condom away and clean them up. Makoto lies on the bed bonelessly, tingling all over and still a little breathless. Laurent tucks himself back into his pants and slides in beside him a moment later.

“I can’t believe you thought I didn’t want you,” he says. “I’ve wanted to do that forever. I’ve wanted to do everything, from the very beginning; it almost doesn’t seem real.”

Makoto turns to him and burrows into his chest to breathe him in, too fucked out to be shy about cuddling. Besides, Laurent loves him back. He’s allowed to touch him now. The thought still makes him a little giddy.

“We have time,” he mumbles into Laurent’s skin. “Next time you should take your clothes off too. You’re wearing too many clothes. And I want to learn to suck your dick. I barely got to touch you! We didn’t even do half the stuff on my list.”

“You had a list?” Laurent is laughing again, as easily like he always does, like he wasn’t literally inside Makoto two minutes ago. 

“I told you, I did research! I’ve never done this before! I had no idea being gay was so complicated. There’s like, at least eleven things we didn’t get to.” He makes a face, remembering his foray into the internet. “I’m not calling you daddy, though. Ever. That one’s weird.” 

Laurent stares at him for a second, then laughs even harder, wheezing until he's doubling over. " _ Daddy _ ? Really? Where on earth did you get that idea? Also, what do you mean by ‘at least eleven’?"

"Stop laughing! What, afraid you can't keep up, old man?"

Laurent is still chuckling. "Oh, not in the slightest. Be careful what you wish for." 

Makoto groans and flops over. “Ugh, you were the one who said you wanted 'everything' first! I just meant that we have time, and that… we can still do all that stuff you want, later." 

Laurent looks delighted, like a boy on Christmas morning. “All of it? Really? Even the whipped cream and caramel syrup? And the lingerie? And the limousine sex, and all the vibrating d-”

Makoto regrets his words instantly and smacks him on the chest, hard, before he can finish that sentence, but Laurent is still going. “And the honeymoon in Marseille, and swimming in Santorini, and stargazing by the ocean, and the long walks by the river, and the movie nights, and rooftop kissing, and the restaurant dates…”

Makoto smacks him again for planning their honeymoon before they even got together, presumptuous bastard, but it’s a weak slap this time and more for show than anything else. “No rooftop anything. I hate heights, remember?” 

“That’s fine, regular kissing is just as good. No need for a view when I can look at you instead.” 

“Oh my god, you’re so embarrassing. Maybe I’m the one who has terrible taste in men.” 

“Doesn’t matter. You loooove me,” Laurent draws out the word love in a sing-song voice. Makoto can’t exactly contradict him right now though, so he just bites him again in the same spot on his neck and hopes it bruises. 

A happy glow is spreading through his entire body. He fights down a smile as he listens to Laurent continue, undeterred by the bite. Breakfast in bed. Room service in his favourite inn in Paris. Long, aimless walks on the beach. Buying Makoto at least a dozen tailored suits just so Laurent can peel them off later. Teaching him to dance, and then taking him out dancing. Concerts. Flowers. Eating and wine-tasting their way through the entire south of Italy. Makoto used to worry about their age gap, and more importantly, their experience gap. He doesn’t consider himself particularly immature and he’s not really that much younger, but Laurent, being… well, Laurent, is obviously a special case; it’s always made Makoto feel a bit small, the way Laurent seems to have lived so much more than he has, the way he was raised in a completely different world. But now as he lies in bed and listens to Laurent spill out all the little wishes he’s held in over the years, he feels that particular insecurity melting away. Laurent isn’t really untouchable, or holding his experiences over Makoto’s head; he seems so eager to share all of those things with him. 

In less than six hours, they’ll have to get up and confront Vandermeer before he notices the hard drive missing. They’ll have to start the negotiation process, secure the cash, and then book it to Bruges to join the rest of the team before any minions or hitmen are called in to take them out. But Makoto isn’t thinking about any of that right now as he falls asleep to the sound of Laurent’s voice, and really, he’s not wrong. They’re going to be just fine. They have nothing but time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -bangs pots and pans together in the town square- Hear ye, hear ye! The sexual tension has been resolved! Come get your resolved sexual tension here, fresh from the fire! 
> 
> (Seriously, I can't believe it took me this long to get to it. I hope it was worth the wait, everyone! There's probably only going to be 1 more long AF chapter to conclude the mission and wrap things up with team hijinks, soft moments in Bruges and a little epilogue I wrote before they even got together. I'm open to doing a short and probably nsfw Laurent POV remix if enough people are interested, though! It would probably take place between the Vandermeer case and the epilogue, since I think this story's going to be pretty resolved by the end and you guys can fill in most of the gaps in Mako's narration yourself. 
> 
> I'm on twitter: https://twitter.com/Iavender_dew
> 
> actual notes: 
> 
> \- "mon dieu" means "my god". laurent went into this fully prepared to continue taking it slow and working up to it but I couldn't stop picturing impatient little demon makoto getting over his shyness after like half an hour and going "stop being romantic get in me or I will die" 
> 
> \- laurent is losing his mind this entire chapter, actually. keep in mind that makoto is an extremely unreliable narrator and only worries bc he's insecure. every time he looks at laurent and thinks he looks unaffected or whatever laurent is actually barely holding his sanity together and he's just quiet bc he's too in love+also horny lmao, I've just noticed he doesn't show his emotions the exact same way mako does
> 
> \- I am so weak for service top laurent. I love the idea of ppl making assumptions about him bc he has this playboy reputation but his favourite part of sex is just making his partners feel good. I respect people who write laurent as being mean in bed but I just can't bring myself to do it! I can't write him as anything but soft (still hella kinky and adventurous and really sexual but... soft. u know?) 
> 
> \- in case it isn't abundantly clear, I am also weak for laurent growing his hair out a little and wearing it in a ponytail. I'd draw endless fanart of him like this but I've got too much half-finished original art to be starting another self-indulgent project haha


	10. Chapter 10

The negotiation goes extremely well; it’s supremely satisfying to see Vandermeer go from furious and blustering to white-faced and quiet once he realizes they aren’t going to give up the drive even if he keeps threatening them with murder. They don’t tell him about all the additional evidence they’ve collected, pretending that Laurent is still the businessman he says he is, and that he only recently decided to betray him out of greed. When he scoffs and asks them how much they want, Makoto is prepared to go back to the original figure they had planned— two hundred million, enough to make a major dent but a fairly easy sum for Vandermeer to procure, which is convenient for a quick exit— but before he can even open his mouth, Laurent is looking at Vandermeer with narrowed eyes and cooly demanding double that sum, like he had gone through the exact same payback thought process Makoto had without even being there for the theft. God, Makoto loves him. 

He leans smugly against Laurent and watches Vandermeer sweat as he maxes out every credit card he owns— he can’t sell his yachts on the spot, after all, but he’ll definitely need to later— and gets on the phone with his banker, barking at him to just transfer the money to the bank account Laurent gave him and stop asking questions. He starts in on another threat—  _ I’m a powerful enemy, Thierry, give it back now and uphold your end of the bargain or I’ll have your head _ — and Laurent just laughs and leans over to press a leisurely kiss to Makoto’s jaw. Vandermeer blanches, clearly disturbed by how unbothered he looks. 

“Who the fuck  _ are _ you guys? Are you really a businessman? And you— ” he points at Makoto, hand shaking with rage— “what are you doing with him? Were you in on it from the beginning? All that flirting last night, I bet that’s when you took it, you little  _ slut _ — “ 

Laurent looks ready to give up on subtlety and punch him in the face, but Makoto beats him to it. He smiles and pulls the drive out from his pocket, dangling it in front of Vandermeer like a dog treat, then throws it onto the marble floor rather than handing it to him directly. Vandermeer gets to his knees immediately, scrambling pathetically to pick it up, and Makoto looks down his nose at him and stomps down on Vandermeer’s wrinkled hand with his boot— one of the pointed, heeled leather boots Cynthia had packed for him to wear on the plane— hard, until he hears a sickening crunch and sees blood. Vandermeer shrieks. 

“That’s for touching me last night when I told you to stop,” he says, grinding his heel down a little harder as he remembers the feeling of his clammy hands groping him in the dark. “Now call me that again, I dare you.” 

Vandermeer looks up at him angrily, clutching his broken fingers, tears streaming down his face. “This is assault,” he hisses. “I can sue you-” 

Laurent laughs again, the sound darker this time. “Oh, you’d go to the police? After everything you’ve told me about the deal? I have more dirt on you than you could ever pin on me,  _ Max _ . Be thankful I’m not involving law enforcement, and that I’m only asking for money and letting you go.” 

They leave him crying on the floor, clutching the hard drive and his bloody hand. They’ll tip off the press and law enforcement both, as soon as the last deposit hits and they’re too far away to be traced. Makoto is breathing hard. 

“Oh my god, I went kind of crazy back there. I can’t believe I did that. Sorry, was that too much-” 

“Not in the slightest,” replies Laurent. “I actually wanted to break the other hand too, so he’d be guaranteed to never touch you again.” He pauses. 

“And... is it bad that I got kind of turned on watching you step on him?”

Makoto laughs in disbelief. “You  _ liked _ it? You really do have horrible taste, I can’t believe you.” Laurent just grins, unashamed. 

“Ugh, I got my shoes dirty.” 

“I’ll buy you new ones,” promises Laurent. “As many pairs as you want.” He’s looking at Makoto like he’s still a little awed.

Makoto rolls his eyes, but he stretches up and pulls him in for a kiss.

— — 

They leave Maui and put ten thousand kilometres between themselves and Vandermeer that day, and Cynthia and Abbie meet them at the airport. Laurent is holding his hand again— he’s almost always doing that now, he held his hand during most of the flight in their first class cabin, only letting go to refill their champagne glasses or fish in his bag for another paperback. Makoto had steadfastly pretended not to like it, but he hadn’t let go either. Right now in the airport, both women look down at their interlaced fingers, and without saying a word, Cynthia holds out her hand smugly in Abbie’s direction. Abbie scowls and dips into her wallet, digging for something.

“I knew it,” sings Cynthia. “I told you, there’s no way they could have made it through three weeks together in a romantic environment like that without figuring out. You should believe in Edamura a little more.” 

Abbie scowls deeper and slaps a wad of cash down into her outstretched palm. “Last time we talked about his stupid crush, he hadn’t even figured out he liked him yet. He just thought he was angry and horny all the time for no reason. I was banking on at least another week or two of constipated pining.” 

“Hello, ladies! Nice to see you too,” says Laurent cheerily, as though this was totally normal behaviour. He doesn’t let go of Makoto’s hand. 

Makoto stares. “You BET on us?” 

“Yeah, and if you had kept it in your pants just a little longer, I would have won,” Abbie grumbles. 

“AND you bet  _ against  _ me?”

“Don’t sound so offended, I lost. Cynthia and most of the others had their money on you figuring it out before the vacation thing was up.” 

“Wh- others?! And that’s not fair! You were the one telling me to sit on his dick!” 

Laurent raises his eyebrows. “You wanted to sit on my-” 

Makoto slaps his hands over his mouth. “Nope! Nope! Too much information! We are not talking about this anymore!” Cynthia just waves the money in her hand and laughs. The four of them pile into a car and fall into an easy, noisy conversation, catching each other up on all the details they’ve missed while apart. But Laurent’s blue eyes are still twinkling, as if to say,  _ oh, we’re definitely going to revisit that later.  _

And they do. They lay low in the safe house in Bruges for a few months while the rest of the team finishes up the long con, occasionally helping them with errands and behind-the-scenes work. But they get a great deal of time to themselves, and the city is beautiful this time of year. As comfortable as Laurent is pretty much anywhere in the world, Makoto can tell he’s happy to be in his element here, dragging him out almost every day to try his favourite foods from childhood and telling him stories. There are brisk, sunny days in parks and museums and cafes, dining out or getting delivery, sometimes talking endlessly, other times enjoying each other’s company in comfortable silence. Long rainy mornings spent lazing in bed and thumbing through separate books, Laurent still working on Japanese in between reading old novels and poetry, Makoto tracing kanji onto his skin with his finger to demonstrate stroke order or tapping away at his laptop while nestled into his side. They spend their nights learning each other’s bodies, falling into each other until they find every pattern of movement and kiss every birthmark and freckle. 

Makoto was so, so wrong to be worried about Laurent getting tired of him; the sex only gets better and better with time, as they get used to one another and become familiar with their boundaries and preferences. It doesn’t always go perfectly— sometimes they try something new and it ends in laughter instead of sex, like the time Laurent accidentally elbows Makoto’s side in his eagerness to get his clothes off and they discover he’s incredibly ticklish there. Or the time Makoto attempts to dominate a very amused Laurent by cuffing him to a chair after reading about the scenario online (“You know how easily I could get out of these, right?” “Shut up and stay still, I’m trying to blow your mind here”) and ends up unlocking the cuffs and straddling his lap after only fifteen minutes, desperate and whining, because all the teasing turned him on too much and he misses Laurent’s hands on him. 

They do in fact revisit the sexy protective thing later; after the debrief, Makoto tells Laurent all about the bits he glossed over when telling the story to the rest of the team members, and gets to watch him go all growly and aggressive with anger all over again. But then he realizes Laurent looks genuinely upset, and Makoto feels kind of guilty for worrying him just for the sake of his weird new kink. He spends the rest of the night letting Laurent hold him incredibly tightly as he reassures him with words and kisses that he’s fine and that he wasn’t in any danger. (The real angry possessive sex actually comes a few months later, when they go out dancing and Makoto catches a particularly beautiful woman insinuating herself into Laurent’s space, twirling a lock of his long hair around her finger and giggling. He drags Laurent off the dance floor and into one of the ridiculously fancy bathroom stalls and sucks angry hickies into his neck and shoulders until there’s no mistaking that Laurent is definitely, absolutely  _ taken _ .)

(“I should make you jealous more often,” says Laurent later, still sounding a little dazed. They emerge from the bathroom together, clothing rumpled and hair mussed, red bruises blooming on Laurent’s neck above the line of his shirt collar. Makoto buries his face in his hands, unable to believe he got so carried away. “Don’t even start.”)

There’s a series of blowjob-related misadventures when Makoto insists that Laurent teaches him to deepthroat and then realizes it’s much harder than it looks, pulling away red-faced and massaging his own neck, complaining hoarsely that Laurent’s dick is too big. Laurent laughs and sinks down to demonstrate exactly how he relaxes his throat and controls his gag reflex, and the lesson basically ends there because Makoto can’t feel his hot mouth around him and his tongue pressing against him and not come embarrassingly quickly. _ Oh my god, oh god _ , he babbles, over and over, and Laurent— the absolute  _ bastard _ — actually pulls off his cock just to grin up at him and say, “just ‘Laurent’ is fine, thank you,” before sucking him down again. Makoto wants to kick him for that, but he’s seconds away from coming and doesn’t want to stop, so he thrusts into Laurent’s mouth a little deeper instead to be mean. But then Laurent just  _ takes _ it, letting him in further, messy and drooling and groaning like he loves it, and the sight is actually unbearably erotic (they both learn something new about themselves that day). 

Makoto is nervous about telling the other con artists that they’re together— what if it’s weird, or changes things?— but it actually doesn’t change anything at all, save for the mortifying knowledge that half the hacking division and some guy from the disguise team was also in on Cynthia’s Edamura-and-Laurent-finally-getting-together betting pool. Apparently Laurent’s big, stupid crush (Abbie’s words, not his) had been visible for years to literally everybody else on the planet save for Makoto. So it doesn’t impact their confidence work at all, in the end. By the time they finally leave Bruges and start researching the next target, settling once again into the familiar pattern of investigation and setup, Makoto feels like he’s been loving Laurent for much, much longer than a few months. And… well, maybe he has. 

They still argue constantly, at least three times a week about everything from casework to food seasoning preferences to eighteenth-century French poetry to dish soap. In the end though, Makoto knows Laurent will always have his back on the things that really matter, and Laurent, in turn, trusts him with his life. Sometimes Laurent keeps things to himself, and Makoto has to swallow the shyness and reach out before that old fear of the gap between them returns. Sometimes Makoto stumbles or gets reckless on a mission, and Laurent nearly goes out of his mind with worry. But they always come back to each other, and they’re never more electric than when they’re working side by side, able to play off one another and anticipate the other person’s lies. Laurent is still the most annoying idiot Makoto knows by far, but now he’s  _ Makoto’s _ annoying idiot, and loving him comes as naturally as falling asleep. 

_ Epilogue: Five Years Later _

Makoto checks his reflection one more time in the mirror and takes a deep breath, then steps out into the casino. He’d slicked his hair back tonight before coming, and he’s wearing one of the many outfits Laurent’s bought him over the years, tailored to fit him like a second skin. A black suit with matte black velvet lapels, crisp white shirt, no tie. There was a time when he would have balked at the idea of taking over a case alone like this, but he and Laurent have been working together for so long that they con like a well-oiled machine. They’re taking down a whole ring of gamblers this time, and Laurent is dealing with a scuffle that had come up across town, so Makoto’s stepping in. 

After the Maxim Vandermeer case, Laurent had hesitantly brought up the idea of going legit if they were going to continue dating. Makoto could go to school if he wanted, Laurent could leave the organization and forge some documents and find a job almost anywhere. It was oddly touching, the idea of Laurent giving up his life’s work so they could have a regular relationship. But as tempting as the prospect was, Makoto knew Laurent’s heart wasn’t in it, and he didn’t think he himself could go back to “regular” anymore. Makoto has no family, and no friends who aren’t criminals. Both of them have seen too much bloodshed and greed at this point to simply retire and live out the rest of their lives quietly in a small town with new names. He’s not the same hungry, wide-eyed boy he was before Laurent lured him out of the seedy underbelly of Tokyo and showed him an entire new way of living. Makoto loves the thrill of what they do, deep down, and he knows Laurent has grown to live for it too. He loves the feeling of wrapping a mark around his finger, loves driving fast and running hard and kissing Laurent in a new hotel room in every city. The smooth click of a picked lock, the sight of Laurent aiming a handgun with deadly, beautiful precision— there’s nothing like it in the world.

One of the gamblers, fat cigar dangling from his lip, sneers at Makoto. “What are you doing here? We’re expecting Laurent Thierry. The game was supposed to start five minutes ago and he still hasn’t showed.” The rest of the men around the table nod in agreement. 

Makoto picks up a deck of cards and shuffles it leisurely, his wedding ring glinting in the light. He admires its shine out of the corner of his eye. The diamond set in the middle alone was valued at over five hundred thousand dollars, and its disappearance from the private collection of a corrupt politician last year had made headlines. Laurent had stolen it just for him, three cases ago, breaking protocol to snag the piece and only getting away with it by the skin of his teeth. When he had gotten down on one knee to present it, shirt still ripped from where a gunshot had grazed his arm, Makoto had seen the wound and slapped him across the face for risking his life for a stupid ring. Then he had put it on his finger immediately, uncaring of the bloodstains, saying  _ yes, yes, yes, yes, _ all in one breath before Laurent had even asked the question and falling forward onto his knees as well to throw his arms around him. They didn’t leave their bed for days after that particular heist. 

Makoto smiles pleasantly at the gamblers staring at him around the table and begins to deal the cards out. Omaha variation poker tonight, high-low split-eight, five cards each. Looking around the room, he almost feels sorry for them all; he’s been instructed to show no mercy. 

“Good evening, gentlemen,” he says, smoothly, after dealing the last card. “I’m sorry for keeping you waiting.” His English has improved over the years, but there’s still a touch of an accent that he doesn’t think will ever go away. The man puffing on his cigar is looking Makoto up and down with disdain, clearly underestimating him. Good. He won’t even see it coming. 

Makoto takes a seat at the table and lets his smile widen a little to show the points of his canines. He’s going to enjoy this. 

“My name is Makoto Edamura, and I’m here to play on behalf of my husband.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I... I feel like I've just run a marathon. There you have it, folks! I've done my best to wrap up all the loose ends, but these two won't leave me alone. I'm working on a Laurent POV remix of this that's a bit darker and angstier, trying to reconcile his kinda slimy manipulative careless side with his love for Makoto and show the process of him figuring out his emotions behind the scenes. Turns out I laid a lot of groundwork in this story without even meaning to, haha. Makoto does pick up on some of the hints, but he's largely oblivious and I kind of thought it would be interesting to do a Laurent character study in this universe (keep in mind I still haven't seen case 4 though, just a few spoilers, so it's probably going to be canon divergent). So please do keep up with me and my writing if you want to see that! If not, thanks for coming this far, I appreciate each and every person who's commented and left kudos on this labour of love. Thank you to the repeat commenters who have been here since the beginning, thank you to the people who followed on Twitter, thank you to Dylan if you're reading this for yelling in my DMs in the middle of the night after each update (I highly encourage this behaviour, come one, come all, yell about your headcanons anytime)! 
> 
> https://twitter.com/Iavender_dew (please only follow if you're 18+, I have no way of checking ages for ao3 readers and I'm okay with that tbh, but I do use this twitter account to like/bookmark/post a lot of nsfw and I'd feel bad if minors interacted and I was somehow a bad influence! I don't want to have to block anyone so just follow at ur own discretion pls) 
> 
> actual notes: 
> 
> \- get it? get it??? it begins with them getting fake married and ends with them ACTUALLY married... I know it's corny but I couldn't help myself I love the symmetry and I think laurent would 100% overcome all his commitment issues and put a ring on that after the events of this story
> 
> \- I added the scene with makoto stepping on vandermeer impulsively yesterday, even though the chapter was mostly finished at that point. I kept imagining him in black skinny jeans and a pair of heeled chelsea boots and how laurent's reaction to him would totally be "kick his ass baby you look so hot" 
> 
> \- cynthia /absolutely/ masterminded this entire get-together. she's known for a long time. she knew what she was doing when she sent them to maui and packed that suitcase full of sexy outfits
> 
> \- I saw the promo photo for season 2 featuring edamura with his hair pushed back and I was like hm. This Is My New Religion. cannot stop thinking about it tbh. him in that hairstyle + his expensive ass stolen wedding ring with a shit-eating grin
> 
> \- according to a few forums I poked around, omaha is generally agreed to be the most difficult form of poker. laurent's an excellent gambler and thought this would be the kind of quirk team confidence might use to their advantage
> 
> \- in the epilogue, mako's wearing a modified vintage (circa ~ 2000, since discontinued) suit from ysl, sans the leg straps and tailored just for him. I just think laurent would be the type to make good on the shopping offer by getting him saint laurent :) very expensive and very french, known for their tux jackets, and kind of androgynously sexy. I could definitely see both of them in tom ford though, and makoto in comme des garçons!


End file.
